Ill Tended Wounds
by Lady Of Proserpine
Summary: After Raoul reveals a terrible secret, Christine's world is shattered. She retreats to the life she once knew, in the care of Madam and Meg Giry. Christine wants to start again but a voice from the past is haunting her dreams.
1. Then My World Was Shattered

**A/N (slightly altered)**

**Here is the repaired version of this chapter due to misspellings etc, my apologies it was my very first fic on this place, so I wasn't sure what to do. So if I make mistakes in future chapters, please be patient; I will correct it.**

**AHH! I screwed up line breaks again! Sorry guys!**

**ANNOUNCEMENT: If you like what I do here, I have just written a new fic, an HP fanfic. It's about the founding of Hogwarts. ** **It's on my author profile, the title is '_I, Ravenclaw'_, so if you like what I do, PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!**

Ch 1

"Christine… There are no words for the shame I feel."

Every word he spoke was an icicle, cold and dagger-sharp into her heart as she sat ramrod straight with a tightened jaw staring blankly back at Raoul. Behind him was a woman with a scrubbed face and hands holding a babe who could not have been more than 3 weeks. The woman was shy and uncertain. Raoul hesitated before taking a step toward Christine.

"The nights were…" he began. Christine found her voice but it was not her own. It was gravelly and monotone.

"Were you with her when you told me you loved me? Did you go to her that very night?" Raoul's face looked pained.

"Christine please,"

"Did you? Do not lie to me Raoul de Chagny." He put his face in his hands. Christine hated him for his weakness.

"Yes,"

"And did you tell her that you loved _her_ as well?" She looked sharply at the woman with the child who cast her eyes down. "Did you?"

"It were but lover's talk," The maid said quietly. Christine slowly rose to her feet, tears standing in her eyes.

"And this babe…" She said evenly. "This _bastard_ de Chagny. Does he have a name?"

The woman found the strength to mutter "His name is Girard, my lady." Christine gave a small applause of feigned delight. She walked with bouncing step to her fiancé, looking him straight into his eyes.

"Ah. And shall this _Girard_ live under our roof? Paid for by your purse and tended by a loving nursemaid? Shall our children share the same ground that this child born of lust will walk upon?"

"No," Raoul said, gaining a bit of courage, his eyes proving his belief that he had found a scrap of rag to cover part of his sin. "He will live in the village. Not with our children."

"Our children," Christine spat. "And what of them? What of the abundant little purebloods we will have. Tell me Raoul, how many OTHER Halflings are there running about the village?"

"You were locked away in the Opera house," Raoul cried desperately. "The nights were cold and I longed for you and-" he gestured helplessly toward the maid who rocked the child. "She was warm and pretty and willing. I had no idea…"

"You had _no idea_," Christine mimicked. "_You had no idea_." With a slash of her arm a crystal vase fell to the floor and smashed spreading a sea of wet, white roses at her feet. She took a step toward her future husband, crushing the stems and blossoms underfoot. For a moment, she seemed to struggle with her voice.

"You told me that you loved me," She screamed in rage and agony. "You told me you belonged to me and that you would shelter me and save me and be with me always." Her face was soaked in tears. "Your vows were my rock, my means for survival knowing that one man in the world loved me _completely_ and _honorably_… And that man told me nothing but _lies_!"

Raoul knelt down to be on Christine's level. He put his hand gently on her arm. "That's not true,"

"Don't touch me," She cried and yanked her arm away as if he had burned her. She stood up and towered over Raoul, her sadness and anger hardening her eyes to tiny beads of hate. "I was haunted," she said. "And you drove away shadows only to bring a living nightmare into my life."

Raoul rose. "Christine…" And she held his gaze for a long moment as he stood helplessly, arms at his side.

"Goodbye, Raoul." She said coldly, and swept from the room.

* * *

"I don't like the mauve—it is unbecoming," Madam Giry said sharply to her daughter Meg, referring to a fabric choice they had made. The two swept from the dress shop arm in arm toward their boarding house.

"I like it," Meg said cheerfully, "It brings out your eyes," Madam Giry scoffed and raised her eyes to heaven.

"My daughter you have such fanciful ideas for an old woman."

"Not so old," Meg replied. They paused before the door and the mother held her child's chin in her hand briefly.

She smiled. "You will miss this place, when we return to Paris-"

Meg frowned and shook her head lightly sending her golden curls trembling. "No. There has been nothing for us here but smoke and debtors." She glanced down the narrow, cobbled streets and the grimy shadows of people wandering from their factories and into their sorry little hovels. The nearbly Petit Patisserie stood with its shingle swaying creakily in the blustery afternoon.

"There is no harm in a factory town," Madam Giry said gently, looking inter her daughters eyes which still warily watched the streets.

"There is no health either. I shall be glad to be dancing again." A young man emerged from the bakery and began to soap down the small windows. Meg watched him crouch and clean the grit from the crevices. He was broad shouldered with tousled brown hair. He glanced up the road to where Meg was standing and their eyes met suddenly. Both looked away, embarrassed.

Madam Giry's eyebrows rose slightly but she said only "You will miss him."

Meg shifted her weight to the other foot slowly; a nervous habit. "Jaques?" Her cheeks flushed slightly. "No. He is nothing,"

"Ah."

"Shall we go inside?" The two entered the small doorway, past their snoring landlord and up the narrow staircase to their room. Madam Giry put a slender hand in her pocket. She frowned slightly.

"My dear do you have the key?" Meg's eyes widened and she shook her head. Madam Giry sighed. "Very well," she crouched down to look for the spare key under the mat, but there was none there. The mother and daughter stared at each other in surprise and Meg cautiously tried the door. It was unlocked.

"Perhaps we forgot." Meg whispered but her mother shook her head sharply and with one great thrust threw the door open. A gray-cloaked figure stood at a narrow, dirty window. It turned immediately when it heard other in the room. Meg's jaw dropped.

"Christine!" She crossed the room in two strides to embrace her friend. She was cold and trembling. Madam Giry watched the two girls.

"I did not see your carriage," Christine looked up and wiped a wet cheek on her hand.

"There is no carriage. I sent it away," Madam Giry saw the misery in the young woman's eyes.

"Oh my dear," Christine broke from Meg to fall into the arms of the woman who had been like a mother to her.

"I couldn't keep it," She sobbed, fresh waves of misery descending onto her. "I took nothing with me. The carriage is his, my gowns are all his, this-" she clawed at her necklace sending a string of pearls flying and scattering like marbles about the room. "And these-" She yanked the diamonds from her ears and the rings off her fingers, the silver bracelet on her wrist and pushed them into Madam Giry's hands. "All his! All gifts from _him_. 'I love you, Little Lottie, I will protect you Christine, let me be your shelter you wandering child." She pulled the emerald broach from her gown, tearing the fabric. "And he betrayed me!" She screamed with misery and Madam Giry set the jewels down on the table as she rocked Christine back and forth like a child. She glanced at Meg and made a quick signal toward the direction of the liquor cabinet and Meg immediately brought a small bottle of laudanum and walked quickly into her room. "There, there," Madam Giry said gently.

"I have nowhere to go," Christine whispered, her voice shaking.

"Hush now, you are tired _ma petite_. Things will be better when you have rested."

"I want no rest,"

"Hush…"

Christine gradually quieted and Madam Giry led her into Meg's room where Meg was standing with the laudanum and a small crystal tumbler. Christine stood like a doll while Madam unlaced her dress and opened it for her to step out of, loosening the ties of her corset as Meg removed her shoes. Christine's eyes were blank and her skin was like ashes. Occasionally, a tear would roll down her cheek and splash onto the white fabric of her bodice.

"Oh, my dear," Meg said sadly to her friend, brushing away a flyaway strand of her brown curly hair. Christine fixed her blank, sad eyes upon her and the two held gaze.

"Come," Madam Giry said to the silent woman and led her by the hand into the cool, clean sheets. She poured a small amount of laudanum into the tumbler and held it to Christine's mouth. "Drink," she commanded. "It will calm you." Christine obediently began to gulp the opiate and soon her eyelids were drooping. Meg tucked the white sheets around her friend and watched her drift into sleep.

"Let us leave her," Madam Giry said quietly. "It will do no good to stay here, she will sleep the night through."

The door shut softly behind them.

* * *

The water was up to her knees as she walked toward him. His breathing was heavy and his eyes were wild. Those great blue eyes that pleaded and adored, that threatened and held the sadness of the earth in their sky-like gaze.

And that face—that monstrous face, the flesh mottled and deformed, skin planted in all the wrong directions, bumps of deformed bone making the shape of his eye socket irregular causing it to sag and the skin around it to pucker in. The hairless, raw flesh reached up past his forehead, extending his hairline to that of a balding old man. His eyes were wary and he stepped back slightly, as if he was almost afraid. She stepped toward him until she faced him. The terrible face held no horror for her as they stood so close. She could see tiny scars on his jaw line and she saw that his pupils were surrounded with hazel against the blue that scanned the remaining iris.

Being so close to him was dizzying and he watched her, uncertain and untrusting. As if in slow motion she brought the her hand to the back of his head, tangling her fingers in the rich black hair and brought his mouth down to meet hers.

She could feel his shock at the strange sensation. His mouth was first closed but gradually his lips parted and he began to follow her motions, learning as he went. He wrapped his arms a little too tightly around her waist and pulled her toward him as her kisses became a little harder as her desire rose and her head began to spin. The hypnotic allure of him filled her senses. He accidentally bit into her and she sensed the metallic flavor of her own blood mixed with the taste that was singular to Erik.

Her hands moved from his head to his cheekbones and she felt the smooth texture of his malformed skin beneath her touch and felt something hot and wet against her fingertips. Almost of its own accord her tongue slipped between his lips and he shuddered, and began experimenting with his own. The Phantom crushed her even closer to him and gave something like a cry against her mouth as she felt his chest catch. Against her own she could feel the rapid beating of his heart.

Then he pushed her away. His eyes were those of a wounded animal.

"Go," He cried, leaving her panting and her kiss-swollen mouth yearning for more. "I release you, forget everything you've seen."

"No," she said softly, although the Phantom could not hear her. Suddenly there was a sharp clicking sound and she whipped around only to see Raoul, suddenly free, cocking a pistol and taking careful aim—

There was a shot. The phantom collapsed, red blossoming from his shirt and spilling over the bare section of his chest.

"_No_!" Christine tried to scream but her voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. She ran toward the Phantom but could only run in slow motion. When she finally reached him she dragged his heavy head to her lap and he looked at her, his eyes hard and accusing.

"Do you see?" he hissed. He brought a blood-stained hand and pushed it against her throat, painting her lips with it and her face, every crimson touch fire; then reaching behind him to pull the cloth off a mirror. She caught a glimpse of her reflection, it was not Christine Daae that looked back at her, but a pagan demon. She screamed with pure sound now, and Raoul carried a baby out of the water.

"Look Christine," He said cheerfully. "Look at our little boy. Look what he can do-" The baby had the face of a wizened old man and it raised its skinny arms. Instantly, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls and thousands of precious stones fell from the ceiling. They fell slowly but each one was razor sharp and Christine dragged Erik to shelter, being hit by gems as she fled, each one grazing her skin and causing her to bleed. Her blood sprang from the wounds and covered the phantom until he was completely red.

"Stop," she begged as Raoul walked jerkily. "Make it stop!"

Raoul smiled mindlessly at her. "But they are gifts," he insisted. "For my little Lottie! How I love my little Lottie!" He reached out to touch her with the same hand that held the pistol.

"NO!" Christine screamed. She sat up in a tangle of bed sheets, panting. It was dark. She ran trembling hands over her limbs and felt the skin uninjured and faultless, and there was no blood. She took a long shuddery breath.

Meg came running into the room.

"What is it?" She asked urgently. "Are you alright? I heard you scream!"

"Oh God," Christine panted to herself. "Oh God,"


	2. The Advice and the Prospects

(A/N)

AHUGE THANK YOU TO ALL THOSE WHO COMMENTED!! I took the criticism and the praise instride, than you SO much!!!! As for the asterisks they are in the original copy of the phic but they did not show up on the projected file! Sorry for the confusion I tried to fix it this time around...

Now on with the story...(/A/N)

Chapter 2

Breakfast was a quiet affair at a small café down the street. The apartment had no kitchen and so dining was impressed upon the Giry's pocketbooks. They made mediocre conversation over strong coffee and bland croissants. Meg and Madam Giry explained that they had been hired at an up-and-coming opera house in Paris, and were to depart in a week. There was no mention of the dream the night before, or of Raoul.

"You should come with us, my dear," Madam Giry offered, "It would be foolish to let your training go to waste."

Christine's chest tightened. "I'm afraid I have lost my teacher," Madam Giry and Meg exchanged glances.

"He's still alive, isn't he?" Christine asked abruptly. There was a pause.

"Yes," Madam Giry said finally.

"Where is he?"

The older woman's eyes were sharp. "It does not concern you."

"Does he still stay beneath the old Opera House?"

Madam Giry's impeccable posture improved by the slightest motion. "Occasionally, but he has found residence elsewhere."

"Have you seen him?"

"Not unless he wishes to be seen." Christine's brow furrowed, not in temper but in thought. It looked for a moment as though she was trying to stare the answers out of Madam Giry.

"You are the mistress of indirect answers," She sighed, her frustration apparent. "I had forgotten."

Madam Giry said nothing and took a sip of her coffee. Meg glanced out the window, clicking her nails upon the tabletop. A tall, brown haired man passed, and her breath caught. He stopped and looked in at her and smiled, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling; a movement that lit his whole face. Meg found her heart pounding irresistibly as she smiled back, her face flushing and giving him a little wave. They both stood motionless for a moment, staring at each other as though at a loss of what to do. Then the man tugged his forelock and hurried away.

Christine watched her friend with wide eyes. Madam Giry, however, appeared to take no notice.

"Who was that?" Christine asked. Meg blushed a deeper crimson.

"Jacques."

"Jacques who?"

"Jacques Nothing," Madam Giry said abruptly, patting the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Meg brushed a strand of her flaxen hair behind her ears and sent a furtive glance back toward the window. Christine's eyebrows raised.

"Quite a handsome nothing," She said carelessly.

"But a nothing nonetheless," Madam Giry responded coldly and Christine fell silent. For a while there was no sound but the occasional footsteps or horse hooves against the cobbled streets.

"Christine" Meg said suddenly. "Are you… are you coming with us?"

Christine stared at her. To return to Paris? To the life she once knew? Begin dancing again and singing for dazzling crowds of the beautifully dressed twinkles of the wealthy and noble? Did she want to feel the openness of the stage beneath her feet and the dizzying expanse of the audience who would expect nothing but her best? She looked at Madam Giry whose eyes remained carefully expressionless beneath arched brows. Christine bit her lip.

"I will go with you to Paris I have enough money of my own to pay my way for a few months… but as for the stage…" She trailed off.

Madam Giry covered Christine's hand with her own. "I understand, my dear. But do not let the darkness of the past throw shadows over what you love,"

Christine sighed. "I know,"

* * *

Maurice Talley was nervous. 

"Robert if these scheme of yours…." His associate Robert Rand put a thick hand on Maurice's shoulder.

"It's not a scheme, my friend. It is simply a meeting with this writer of yours."

"Mine?" Talley said frantically, running his fingers through dark blonde hair. "Mine?! I've been corresponding with him, certainly, but he is no writer of mine!" He threw a glance over his shoulder, nervously scanning the dimly lit tavern. "I don't know why he asked us to meet him in _this_ sort of place." He brushed a group of dry bread crumbs off the table with a sweep of his hand. "This can't be healthy,"

Rand shrugged, the only movement besides the endless scanning of his beetle- black eyes. He took a swig of ale from a large pewter tankard. Talley fingered his brandy nervously.

The door to the tavern opened, and a tall figure in a cloak entered. He stopped at the bar, placing a leather-clad hand upon it as he spoke to the man behind it. The bald bartender jerked his head in the direction of Rand and Talley. Talley immediately straightened up and bent his head, adopting the position of one in deep conversation. Rand, however, stared blatantly back at the stranger.

"This is our man," Talley said nervously. Robert remained motionless.

The man ordered a drink and with barely half a glance at the two men behind the table, he walked through a door behind the bar. Rand regarded the closed door and slowly got to his feet.

"What?!" Talley asked instantly. "Where are you going? Are you leaving me??"

Rand held up a hand.

"He wants us to follow him."

Talley hesitated, and then sat up with such speed and force that the table nearly toppled over. "If you say so,"

Both men approached the door and looked at the bartender who pretended not to notice. Talley pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. They had entered a long corridor full of doors. Exchanging glances, the two stopped and waited. And listened.

"He doesn't seem to be here," Talley said in a loud whisper but Rand held up a hand for silence.

"Listen,"

Talley obeyed. He listened so hard he could feel his neck beginning to strain. And his efforts did not go un-rewarded. He heard music. A piano. And it was not the usual banging of keys to a rhythm according to notes that seemed so popular in upper social circles. No, this was something else besides music; this was a speech, this was a story.

Every note came through true and clear to their ears on a curve of heaven and sorrow. The song portrayed a rounded emptiness, a gaping hole in the soul that could never be filled after a life of so much wanting. The player transitioned from octave to octave, note to note so smoothly it was as if he had a finger for every key.

Talley's jaw dropped and he looked at Rand, who's usually aggressive expression bared a burning curiosity. The two men began to follow the call of music that led them down the hallway to a door like all the rest. Slowly, Rand turned the knob and pushed it open, as if afraid to disturb the flow of the piece and its unending treble tears and bass groans.

There was a small piano n the right hand corner of the room that sat upon a threadbare carpet, and two cracked leather chairs behind the stool. The cloaked man sat at the piano, moving with his playing, thrusting his whole body into the keys as he played with more ferocity and passion and then soothed the notes with gentle swaying.

The two others sat in the chairs, watching long fingers trace each key lovingly only to leave for another and take it into his tender care. Neither man moved as he watched this musician at his instrument, this artist in his element. Neither wished to break the spell and lose sight of this haunting melody.

But gradually, the notes faded away into the cold fog of the evening, leaving nothing but a ringing echo in their wake. The man seemed to come out of a trance and his back straightened. He turned to face his new partners.

"My," Talley said with difficulty, his voice cracking. "Oh my,"

* * *

"He had a child, Meg," Christine repeated, on her back looking at the ceiling of Meg's room. Both women were dressed for bed. 

"Oh Christine," Meg said, reaching for her friend's hand.

"I left him because he was unfaithful… but also because he… I don't know,"

"You couldn't trust him?"

Christine shifted her weight onto her elbow, wiping a wet cheek on her hand. "Yes…" she remembered that night on the roof. "It's just..." she shook her head against the pillow and Meg patiently waited for her to continue. "He spoke so beautifully to me. He told me he loved me every waking moment. He told me it was only me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with…"

Meg lay on her belly with her chin in her hand. "Just because he has a child doesn't mean he doesn't want to spend the rest of his life with you," She reasoned. Christine shut her eyes against a wave of pain.

Meg brought her friend's head into her lap and stroked her hair as if she were a small child, as fresh waves of Christine's sorrow brought more tears. It was a while before she quieted.

"And soon," Meg whispered into the darkness, lit by a single candle. "We shall be back in Paris and you can forget all of this."

"Forget," Christine moaned. "Forget…"

"Yes," Meg said firmly. She looked dreamily out her window and into the night. "We'll go to all the places we went when we girls. The fair will be starting again. It's fall and the trees in the park will be amber and gold and brown and red." She smiled. "And the candied almonds will be sold hot in the streets…"

Christine smiled. "Does Pierre still sell them?" She referred to an ageless, whithered man who rested his great cart upon the cobbles near the old Opera House until the winter snows drove him away.

"Oh, I expect so," Meg said cheerfully, glad of her friend's distraction. "And the wind will smell of bonfires,"

"And the children will be looking forward to the first snow,"

"The dorms would be heated by the great fireplace, and Maman would read stories to the little ones," Meg said reminiscently. "And then bedtime prayers…"

To Meg's disturbance, Christine's smile faltered. "And I would go down the chapel and light a candle for my father,"

"Christine--"

"And I'd sit for hours at a time, shivering and silent waiting for the voice…" Christine's eyes became shadowed. Meg chewed her bottom lip and watched her friend's thoughts cross her face.

"D'you still think of him?" The question was direct. Christine's sharp, sudden glance at Meg was quickly muted and softened into a blank stare. Her dream of the night before suddenly invaded her imagination. Echoes of Erik burst into her senses suddenly, like a hard gust of wind on a blustery day. She could feel him, smell him, taste him, each sensation pushing itself onto her until her heart ached as if it would burst'. Flashes of scenes half-filled and sharply remembered flashed through her brain. His mouth as it sang for her, his hands as he cursed her and his eyes as they pleaded with her, trying to find words to tell her…

"Not often," She said softly.

But as soon as she said it, both knew it was a lie.

(A/N)

Yes, yes I know not too much happened in this chapter and it's not me at my best perhaps,but PLEASEstick with me I needed to introduce more characters and try to explain points of view.

The next chapter will be up VERY soon!


	3. The Happenings of Days and Nights

**A/N**

_I got this chapter up as fast as I could-- enjoy._

Chapter 3

Talley folded stub-fingered hands into his lab, legs crossed. The musician that sat before him was not what he'd expected. For one thing, his face was half-covered by a mask as white as bone, coming to end above a wide mouth and reached up past the man's hairline. The left half of his face was formed like any man's; medium cheekbones and a strong jaw line squaring off into a fairly prominent chin. His hair was thick and black, swept away from his face with hair oil that glistened in the light of the candles. The musician's eyes were wide and dream-like, but he did not smile.

"So," Talley began. "Is that the sort of thing we can… expect?"

The stranger showed no change in expression. "Naturally,"

"And have you—have you written erm… many pieces? Like this?" Talley's foot began to jiggle subconsciously.

The man did not move a muscle as he spoke, save for his firm jaw. "No. This piece is singular."

Talley cleared his throat. "But erm… is it for the Opera?"

"No,"

"For our personal enjoyment, then?"

"No,"

Talley glanced pleadingly at Rand, who sat regarding this odd man with a mixture of curiosity and dislike.

"Why did you play it if you do not wish to sell it?" Rand asked frankly. The new addition to the partnership gave a small, catlike smile.

"You will find, Monsieur Talley, and Monsieur Rand, that the finest work of an artist is rarely for purchase."

Talley, always the businessman stiffened with rejection. "Nonesense," he said with a coarse chuckle. "You wouldn't have played it for us if you hadn't wanted to advertise it."

The small smile remained on the man's face. "I composed and played this piece for myself. You simply followed me into my private rooms,"

Rand shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Ah,"

There was silence.

"Gentleman," the stranger said quietly, reaching for an inconspicuous shelf and drawing forth a leather-bound stack of pages. "The manuscript you asked for,"

Talley snatched it from the man's hands and glanced at the title.

"_The Rise and Fall of de Montigue,_" Talley read. Rand glanced over his shoulder, reading as he flipped through listing of songs and musical notes that began to blend together. But the last few pages had no writing on the at all.

"They're empty," Rand observed.

The mysterious man's eyes remained cold. "Yes,"

Talley's quick and graceless hands made rattling and snapping noises of the pages as he flipped through the score. "The last song," he muttered for the benefit of all, "Is entitled 'To Flee or Die,'… but after that there is nothing,"

"The ending is not yet finished, sir." The man acknowledged, inclining his head slightly.

"Why not?" The stranger smirked again.

"The fates of the lovers has not yet been decided,"

"And when can we expect the finished product?" The man's eyes grew slightly colder.

"If I am to write the first great opera for your theatre, sir, I will need time."

Rand scraped the pad of his right thumb with his right ring finger and shifted. "Ah," he stood up. "Monsieur, thank you. I believe we have heard enough."

Talley, who was peering at the stranger with a bizarre fascination leapt to his feet.

"Yes," he stammered. "Thank you. Good evening to you."

The man stood up as well, and shut the piano swiftly. "Good evening, gentlemen." And he swept out the door, ahead of the two men who had already excused themselves for their departure.

Talley and Rand glanced at each other.

"Strange fellow," Talley commented. Rand watched the door as if expecting the musician to return.

* * *

Meg walked the lonely streets of the early morning and into the bakery, head bent low over the basket she carried, white gloves contrasting gently against the serene gray of her gown. She hesitated for a moment outside the door, and with a deep breath pushed it open and entered.

Jacques was behind the counter, back to her, wiping old flour off the shelves that normally displayed the morning's loaves. Meg's breath caught in her throat and the second he turned around she whipped in the opposite direction and began to examine the pastry display.

"Mademoiselle? Can I help you?" Meg's spirits lifted at the sound of his voice and it took all of her energy not to spin around on her heel like a little girl. She turned slowly.

"Oh… Monsieur Taillé I did not notice you standing there!"

A lie. But a necessary one.

Jacques seemed to gulp air. "Erm… I was cleaning…" There was a moment when the two simply stared at each other. They could not hear a passerby in a shabby coat comment to his companion that they looked as though they wished to devour each other. Meg returned to her façade of the aloof Parisian. But found there was nothing she could do to find her voice again. The pose and expression were adopted, but no words seemed to come.

"What can I get for you today?" Jacques asked suddenly? Meg snapped up the chance for conversation.

"Two loaves of wheat and one white, please." Her mouth opened and closed as if she wished to say more. But there was another heated silence.

She bent over to examine a few cakes near to where Jacques was standing. His dark eyes flicked to her slightly exposed cleavage but he immediately straightened his back, shutting his eyes for a moment, regaining his composure.

He occupied himself with wrapping her order in protective covering. She glanced at him from under her eyelashes feeling her heart flutter as his hair fell slightly into his eyes.

"Monsieur Taillé," she said, and Jacques almost dropped the second wheat loaf.

"Yes?"

"I would like…" She trailed off. His eyes were framed by long, thick lashes. She hadn't noticed before… and his eyebrows were a shade darker than his hair. His mouth was a flushed dark pink and when he smiled they drew back pleasantly to reveal strong, good teeth. A few freckles dotted his nose, giving him the charming look of a boy who had grown up quite suddenly. His neck was brown with the sun and there were flecks of stubble in the vicinity of his adam's apple. She looked down at his hands which were brown as well, large with wide palms and strong fingers. She wondered for a moment what they would feel like in her own small white ones. Would they be rough or smooth? Soft of harsh? Would he grip her hand too hard? She could feel her heart pounding as he continued to stare at her.

Jacques stood and waited for her to finish her sentence, heart pounding in his chest. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with wide, curious eyes and skin like cream with a slight flush in her cheeks. Her hair caught the light in its thick, luxurious tresses. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to be surrounded by that hair, draped in gleaming curls over his chest and belly, running his hands through it and—

This thought had such an effect on him he had to bow his head to hide his flaming cheeks.

The tinkling bell that signified another customer entering the shop put a damper on the moment of erotic tension. It was the Giry's landlord.

Meg smiled. "Good morning, Monsieur Wegmuller," she said kindly. He flapped a hand to silence her.

"The usual, Jacques," he said gruffly, drawing out a handkerchief and wiping a running nose with it. Jacques placed a baguette into a bag along with a small sugar bun. Monsieur Wegmuller dragged a coin out of pocket and placed it on the counter with click. He turned to Meg.

"So you're leaving soon?"

"Yes," she said quietly, uncertain how to react.

He snorted his consent. "Very well. Returning to the City of Sin are you?"

Meg looked up innocently. "No sir, I'm going home to Paris," Wegmuller snorted again, took his order and shuffled out of the store. Meg bit her lip as she watched him leave. Jacques stood watching her.

"You're going to Paris?"

She didn't meet his eyes. "Yes, I'm going home,"

"Oh…"

There was a brief pause. Meg wasn't certain whether to tell him now how much she would miss him… her heart ached with the thought of leaving him.

"My sister is in Paris," he volunteered. Meg's head snapped up.

"You have a sister?!" Jacques shifted his weight to the other foot, looking at Meg as though he was sizing her up.

"Well… not technically,"

"Technically?"

"She disowned my family and fled after… after…" He bowed his head in shame. Impulsively, Meg reached out to cover his hand with her own.

"After what?"

He sighed. "My mother gave birth to a deformed child and my father took it to the woods and…."

The practice of removing children that would not be able to care for themselves was customary. Jaques remembered the little child, armless and missing an ear as it squalled as though drowning. He had been thirteen and his own heart had turned witnessing the crippled gargoyle that his mother had birthed. His sister….

"Her name was—is Annette," He said. "I hear from her occasionally, but letters are rare." Meg nodded slowly. She knew the fate of a girl alone in the dark streets of Paris.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. And she meant it.

They suddenly realized that Meg's hand was on his own. Neither moved. Meg looked up at Jacques whose eyes were like pools of ochre. Her fingers seemed charged with electricity as she reached up slowly to touch his face and he shut his eyes when her fingertips grazed his jawbone, feeling himself shiver. He looked at her small mouth, it was a rosebud, as sweet as sugar. He leaned forward and she could feel his breath on her face. It smelled of

"Burning!" Jacques said suddenly, and ran into the back which was thick with smoke. The loaves that had been baking were reduced to black bricks.

Meg blushed impossibly hard and whipped out a note that was far too much for her order but she did not wait for money to change hands. She snatched up her bread and with a muttered "I'm sorry," over her shoulder she all but ran out of the shop and into the indifferent cold of the morning.

* * *

"Fools," A stranger in a cloak muttered to himself as he walked down the dark alleyways of Paris. The night was moonless.

A hand grabbed him. "Love me for a franc sir?" called a voice. Erik glanced down at the badly dressed prostitute and shrugged her off. As he continued to walk he reached out a hand so his fingertips grazed the walls on one side of him. His boots made a rough noise on the street, and somewhere a horse whinnied. And there was a moan in the shadows. Erik's leer was lost in the darkness.

The honorable side of Paris had gone to their beds. And the creatures of the underworld erupted from the pores of sin to tempt men with the allure of sexual obedience for a small fee.

Erik arrived at a less dismal abode; two small lanterns glowed in the windows, casting red haze onto the streets. With after three sharp knocks, a woman with red-painted lips and hair to match swung the door open, pausing to pose seductively on the threshold.

"Monsieur, can I help you?" Erik shook his head and pushed past her into the house.

The atmosphere was the same as always, red light left strange, dark brown shadows upon the wall as whores crowded together, some with men, others watching with sharp eyes to spring upon the next customer. The house was large with many rooms, each crowded on the lower levels, where the working class men took their pleasure in public while nasal voices sang rowdy songs of lust, drink and sailors. The upper levels however were quieter and cleaner, the more beautiful and expensive creatures lurking above, waiting to be called upon.

Erik blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. Hands grabbed at him through open doors like licks of flame but he continued to walk until he had reached the bottom of a flight of stairs. Reaching up one long arm he pulled on a bell rope. Somewhere within the maroon recesses of the house, a bell tinkled. He heard footsteps. A gray-haired woman with a think mouth and eyes as sharp as daggers descended the steps. She did not smile as she recognized him.

"Madam Boyé," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "Good evening," She glared at him.

"Again?" she was a woman of few words.

"Yes," he said with a smile. She rolled her eyes and elegantly ascended the stairs. Erik waited.

An hourglass figure appeared on the landing, and, hand on her hip, a woman descended, limbs swinging seductively. Erik surveyed her coolly. Madam Boyé appeared behind them.

"You are a man of habit, Monsieur," she said in an offhand manner.

Erik did not reply. Instead, he offered the young woman his hand and she took it, carefully expressionless. The two walked toward the door.

"She must be back by dawn," Madam Boyé called after them, although she followed closely. The two walked out the door and though there was no clicking noise to signify its complete closing. The whore pushed against Erik so his back was against the wall. She curled one leg around his hip and moved her head in such a way that Erik's face was hidden from view, and she began to toss her auburn curls, rotating her head around her neck. The door snapped shut.

Immediately the young prostitute detached herself from Erik (who had not moved a muscle) with a small, respectful nod.

"Thank you," She said. Erik offered her a small, rare smile. The two began to walk down the street as chastely as brother and sister, neither touching nor giving any hint of intimacy.

Erik glanced behind him and folded his hands in the small of his back. "Come, Annette," he muttered. "We have until dawn."

* * *

While the town slept Christine was wakeful, sitting on the windowsill. She was tired, but at the same time she was afraid of sleep, for sleep would bring dreams, and dreams would bring nightmares. And so she sat in the light of a single candle, chin in hand, watching a small boy come to tend the streetlamps. In her hand she held a letter addressed to the Giry's, meant for her eyes. It was unopened.

She sighed and turned it around to read the address again. The straight, black slant was familiar to her. She slid the tip of her nail into the seal of the envelope feeling the cold wax, smooth and unfeeling. Through the slightly translucent envelope, she could make out a few words, but she knew what they would string together to say.

It was not the first letter Raoul had written to her. She had snatched the first one out of Madam Giry's hand and after reading 'I love you, please return. I cannot live without you…' she had thrown it back to the other woman and walked away. Christine stared at the unopened envelope, daring herself to open it, daring herself to fall victim to the flowery sonnets that were no doubt intertwined with words of sorrow and regret.

He would tell her he loved her, she knew that. He would assure her that she was the only woman in the world he cared about. He would promise her that the child would never be in her sight, beg her to return so they could marry and start a family of their own based on honor and love. He would paint charming images in her mind of picnics on the deChagny estate in summer with cherubs of children running around in straw bonnets, rosy cheeks glistening in the sun. Their children. Their wonderful, talented children who would grow up to be beautiful, honorable, intelligent and (naturally) beloved of all who knew them. And then he would tell her how they would grow old together, retiring into the south as their eldest son took up the role of Vicomte and would do so with an honest, god fearing, fair hand.

And she knew she would fall prey to all of it.

Christine could feel her jaw tighten as she glared into the empty streets below. With great care, she placed the envelope into the candle flame and watched the letter slowly burn to ashes.

She lifted the glass window and a gust scooped the smoldering embers out into the night.

"Take it," she muttered to herself. "Take your damned love to hell with you and may you rot there."

The slam of the window frame set a dog howling somewhere in the distance.


	4. If this is love, this is anger

**A/N**

**Yes, finally, Chapter 4. The original chapter 4 I hated. I posted it for about 6 hours and for those who read that abomination-- I am so, so terribly sorry. Forget everything you read.  
**

**So this is much better and very different. **

He had not meant to frighten her.

When he had called to scold her for letting that fool of a Vicomte into her room, he merely wished to persuade her not to see him again. But envy and a sudden, empty loathing gave his voice far too much power. His anger gushed forth from his lungs and she cringed with shame, hanging her head like a scolded child. He longed to reach out and touch her, longed to caress those fine brown curls and stroke that swan-like neck. But he dared not break the spell that bound her to him. His mystery was like a drug to her, kept her looking, kept her waiting.

But it was time for the game to end.

He reached out to touch the cool glass, pushing it outward just enough to change the angle, exposing him to her vision. Her eyes widened, but not with fear. Behind him, his hand flexed and clenched as she came nearer, awe in her face and wonder in her eyes. For a moment he was certain he had fooled her in his illusion of holiness and grandeur. She would not dare touch him, even as he extended his hand.

She looked at him as though he was a ghost, ready to melt away at her touch. He kept his expression cool and clear as she tentatively reached for him, trusting him, wanting to know him…

And then suddenly she pulled away, her eyes gleaming and her mouth flashing a smile full of teeth. She barked a laugh and backed away. He stepped forward.

"Come," he hissed, his voice unintentionally harsh. He could feel his mask beginning to slip. "Come to your angel,"

"You are no angel," she said maliciously. "You are but a man, a convict and a murderer." He could feel himself beginning to tremble uncontrollable, holding up a hand to his face to try to keep his mask on. It began to slip through his fingers that were suddenly soaked with perspiration. He could not hold it… it was going to fall…

He reached out again. "Please," He said quietly. She laughed, an ungainly sound bursting from her lungs she laughed into his face.

"Nonsense," said she. "How could an angel ever love a monster?" And with a sharp slap to his face, the mask flew and hit the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces.

And there was no noise but her shrieks and her laughter as he covered his face with his hands…

---

Erik writhed in his sleep. Annette, dozing herself in a long hammock once used for a sailor's opera opened her eyes to look at him. He was dreaming again. She watched him as his face switched expressions very quickly, and his throat strained.

This often happened. As long as she had been coming, when he slept in her presence —which was rare—he always slept like a troubled dog; lightly and fitfully.

She watched him, and wondered what he dreamt of.

Strands of black hair caught the light, reflecting blue as he moved. His fingers picked at the sheets. Long, slim fingers as they were, those of a musician with square nails and gently sloping knuckles.. Annette looked down at her own hands, small with what men had called 'baby fingers,' or 'troll fingers'. They were ruddy, the nails were bitten and the palms were broad.

Standing up, she rearranged her skirts and padded over to rekindle the small fire that just kept off the winter chill. She knelt to encourage the flames, blowing gently and poking at the smoldering embers. As the flame grew, Annette turned to sit with her back against the fire, the parts of her back exposed over the top of her bodice flushing with the warmth. She sat on her haunches, palms stretched out behind her, elbows locked and leaning backwards. The flames lit the room full of shadows and orange glow. Her shadow grew and spread itself out to the point of no significance.

One could not see Annette's features completely clearly, but if she turned, her face was enhanced by the glow and shadows. She was a second-glance beauty. Her eyes were a little too large and close together, he jaw a little too strong, nose a little too pert, mouth a little too small. But her hair was auburn and curly and she had all her teeth, making her presentable for any man. When she smiled, two dimples deepened either side of her face.

The light reflected on the bizarre furniture and decorative objects stolen from opera sets, taken from storage rooms and repaired to be functional. He lay in the great swan bed, that had served as a resting place for the mermaid king, the red velvet his own personal addition from the wooden 'mattress' that had been there, nailing shut the trap doors that had served to hide several dancing girls that would emerge at some part in the performance.

Surrounding the swan there was a great organ display and a great oak table, a rare acquisition from the office of the opera's last owners, belonging to Monsieur Fermat, salvaged from the wreckage after the Opera house had fallen. There was a burn mark down the center, but it still served its purpose. Surrounding the table was a chair with a red plush seat and golden embossed backing, and two more chairs, one of which was a stiff-backed French parlor chair and the other was a chair from the orchestra pit, served as shelves for scrap pieces of paper, quills and inks.

In the alcoves that served as storage spaces of the underground cave there was everything from papier-mâché skulls to extra lines of sheet music, wigs of every shape and size, and gold-lined silk flowers and spare red wax. A large portrait of a woman holding a severed head sat in shadows against a wall, gathering dust. The stagehands had written dirty words and drawn inappropriate pictures across it with black paint. It was in disarray, but such mismatched items seemed to complement each other in such a way.

She recalled the first time she had come here.

--

_Two months Prior_

Madam Boyé had called for her through the upper levels of the House where she stayed and served. Annette herself was exhausted, having dealt with a particularly strange customer the night before with a fetish for rope and small, sharp knives. She had begged Madam Boyé to spare her and send her friend Anya in her place, but Boyé had refused, a fearful expression on her face.

And so Annette had whitened her face and given her pale cheeks extra rouge, abstaining from painting her lips. She bit them until a bit of blood came into them.

Not entirely satisfied, but too exhausted to do anything but get it over with, she descended the come-hither smile she had been taught plastered on her face.

She remembered that the room was dark. Most of the doors in the public rooms were sealed, only slight shafts of the red haze flowing out into the hallway. It gave the man waiting for her the appearance of some creature of the underworld. He was standing in profile, watching shadows dance in the almost-two dimensional rectangles of blood red. Madam Boyé preceded Annette, and announced her.

The man was startled, and jerked to face them. Annette felt her blood run slightly cold as she stared at his fearful visage.

His face was half-covered by a glimmering of polished pale yellow mask. Annette assumed it was some kind of wood. It was rough, with a strange hole punched through it to accommodate sight through his right eye. The entire thing was secured about his face with tightly-wrapped length of strong, and (as Annette would notice later), a strange, sticky substance.

And so Annette stood on the steps, staring at this man who, in turn, stared at her. He stared at her face, and then the auburn ringlets of her hair, and then to her red cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. She looked to Madam Boyé, who said nothing, merely pushed her knuckles into the small of Annette's back, pushing her unwilling body forward.

"I bed you goodnight Monsieur. Annette must return by dawn, she is a valuable commodity."

The man seemed to find his voice. He gave the Madam a curt nod and straightened his back. "It will be as you say. Come, Annette."

But Annette did not want to come. Nor did she wish to go. The bizarre sight of this man compelled her into one spot. The knuckles in her back dug a little harder, and Annette could feel uncomfortable pressure through the lacings of her bodice and corset. Her feet began to move.

The man said nothing to her, but he put a hand in an awkward way on her shoulder and led her out onto the street. She continued to stare at him blankly, partly out of exhaustion and partly out of a kind of horrified fascination. He continued to lead her until the words dribbled like a tired groan from her mouth.

"Who are you?"

He looked at her and smiled coldly. "Your customer,"

"Yes," she said, unflustered but annoyed. "But does my customer have a name?"

For a moment he looked straight ahead, saying nothing. "No," Annette's expression changed to raised eyebrows only briefly. She quickly blinked it away.

"Ah," She said slowly. They did not speak for a short while longer. Her lack of interest seemed to ice his already frosty demeanor over slightly. She was not in the mood for games of wit, her body ached and hear head felt heavy. It took all of her energy not to fall over.

"If you must call me something, let it be Erik,"

Annette shook herself out of her stupor. "Ah," She said again. "Very well, Monsieur Erik."

They came to a stop at a wall, and the man pushed a small grate open. He looked at her as though he expected her to go through. Annette did not argue. She knew better. It had taken more than enough bruised lips and eyes and enough sharp words to teach her not to question the desires of a man she was there to serve. She lumbered through, tripping slightly on the stairs down. And the rest was darkness.

A swish of pant legs announced Erik's presence behind her. He put his hand strangely back on her shoulder and pushed her forward.

After even more walking, Annette made a mental note to wear practical boots if this customer ever came to call again. Her shoes were digging into her feet most painfully.

But a small light at the end of the apparent darkened hallway grew and they arrived in this strange room…

He stood before her, watching her hanging jaw as she turned in a small circle, taking the bizarre and dream-like disarray in. She spied the bed on one side of the room and walked toward it.

She sat upon the red velvet, pushing back the urge to remove her shoes and stockings and rub her sore feet. Instead, she shook herself slightly more awake and adopted the seductive pose and curt smile that she had been trained to offer. Her whole body would be grateful for the opportunity to lie down.

Annette looked up towards Erik who stood, still at the entrance to the room, watching her. She smiled wider, biting her lips almost imperceptibly to give them more pink. She patted the bed beside her.

He looked nervously at her. His hand fluttered to the table top and then back to his side. "Not there," was all he said.

Immediately Annette leapt up, brushing the back of her skirt back into place. She replaced her puzzled expression with the smile again.

"Where then?" She sent a small glance down to the hard stone floor. A small voice in her head grunted in frustration. That would hurt her back, or knees, however he wanted her it would scrape her and make her bleed. Madam wouldn't approve. But the man, Erik, still did not move.

"I…" he faltered. "Do we…" Annette was beginning to feel a little uncertain. This was certainly an older man, old enough to be a man of the world. So why was he worried about such a woman as her?

She walked a little toward him, letting the scent of her strong, sweet perfume get close to him. But he backed off.

"Easy love," she said, voice full of confidence. "Like this," And she pulled him toward her, lips pressing around his mouth and thigh wrapping around his hips. For a moment, she could feel him respond, feel him try to enjoy it…

He pushed her off and she tripped backwards. Her smile was now gone. She was afraid. Annette knew just as well as the other what happened to girls who failed their customers… Madam didn't approve…

"Please," She said hoarsely, dragging a hip down the outline of her though, across her belly and her pushed and pressed breasts. It sometimes worked, the begging and pretending to want… "Don't you want to?"

Erik straightened his back, adopting a more confident pose and glaring at her down his long, straight nose.

"No," Erik said, suddenly curt. "I don't. You may go." Annette felt her heart sink.

"Oh come on love," she said easily. "You didn't bring me here just for a--"

"It was a mistake," he said abruptly.

Annette was alarmed. "Please," she tried again.

"Leave, whore,"

Now she was simply angry.

"Pay me," she demanded.

"No,"

"Well I can't just go back!"

"Why not? I daresay we've been gone long enough!!" Annette was now helpless and Erik was colder by the second.

She rocked back and forth on her toes. "What is this place?" She asked, her curiosity suddenly getting the better of her.

"My home,"

"We're beneath the old Opera House aren't we?" She said quietly. He moved to the seat before the organ, but did not turn to play.

"We are," he admitted.

She nodded slowly and turned around in a circle again, taking in everything. "My brother Jacques always wanted to go there… he said the crème de la crème of Paris came here to watch the shows… and then…"

Erik was now impatient. He slammed his fist against the wood, making Annette jump out of her speculation. "And then there was an accident and the dream is over. Indeed that is the tale. How much shall I pay you for your 'services'?"

"Why d'you stay here, then?" She was only seventeen. Her tongue was now quicker than her conscience.

He looked up at her and the masked part of his face caught the light, giving him the appearance of a half-man. "There are many memories here,"

She nodded slowly. "I no longer have a home—I left." she continued. She could feel the vein of conversation picking up. "I left,"

Erik was aggravated into responding. "Why?"

Annette shrugged. "The story will bore you, it is much like many others. Let's just say I had nothing to lose when I got into the business I'm in,"

He looked up. She had caught him. Annette planted her feet into a more comfortable position, resting her weight on one leg and then the other, trying to give some sort of steady relief. "You were not a virgin?" Now he was interested.

She sighed and shrugged. "I had a child…"

"Were you married?"

She giggled. "No,"

Now Erik indicated her to take a seat. She rested her weight upon a ladder back chair. Her story intrigued him. She had played her last card to success. At least her body would be given a rest, if not her voice. "By whom?"

"By a wealthy man in the town. They hid me away saying I had a terrible fever, and my mother pretended the babe was hers, stuffing herself as I grew larger. I spent nine months in a dark room at the top of my father's bakery… the man left and I gave birth to the child. It was--"

She stopped herself, feeling the pain in her face, neck and heart sharpen. She coated it with the illusion of a smile. The fact that he wore a mask still bothered her, but she could feel herself growing accustomed.

"I left home to come here,"

Erik stared at her steadily. His eyes were blue, she noticed. She swayed on her feet slightly.

"You are tired," he observed. She flashed another smile.

"No,"

"You are," he accused, taking in her bloodshot eyes and fuzzy movements. "Would you like to return to your… your place of residence?" He did not call it home. But she had to agree with them—it was not.

Her eyes widened. "No," she begged. "Please no,"

Now he was curious. "Why not?"

Annette bit the inside of her lip. "It is not wise to return at this point, Monsieur."

He nodded crisply. "You may sleep here this evening, and then return."

Within moments he had dragged down and draped a canvas hammock and she layed within it awkwardly. Her eyes were wide and staring.

"Are you sure you don't want me to--"

"Yes,"

'What a funny man,' She thought idly, before drifting off into a deep, sweet sleep.

--

She had wandered home the next morning, giving every appearance of exhaustion when she felt well rested, although hungry.

Madam was waiting for her, but Annette did not mind much. The man, Erik, had given her the money and wished her good day. She did not wish to accept it, but had little choice. Anya, Annette's closest friend and usually a temptress of the downstairs customers came to her room shortly after her arrival.

Her dark eyes were eager.  
"What happened?? He was a funny man, wasn't he?"

Annette sighed. "He let me sleep, and sent me home." Anya, still rumpled from the night before, covering the love bites on her neck with thick whitening mixture looked up at her.

"That sounds familiar," She said quietly. Annette smiled and gave an exasperated sigh.

"Oh my dear Anya, such dreams for me,"

"But it's true!" Anya insisted, shoving her knees out in front of her to shuffle toward Annette. "Everyone knows that Marguerite met her man like that."

Marguerite was something of a legend with the Boyé girls. She had met a British dignitary on a cold winter night two years ago, and he soon left his sickly wife for her when Rite had his son, and rumor had it that the two were living in luxury in India. It was the dream of several prostitutes to be carried off like that… but when the next man came toward you with money in his palm and lust in his eyes the hope was quashed.

But two nights later, the Monsieur Erik came for her again.

"I find you appealing," He said frankly as she sat before him, backside in the hammock, feet rocking to keep her balance.

And they began to talk.

Oh how they spoke of many things. Of life, of home, of family. She never learned of his past, but spoke at length of hers. She told him the tale of Marguerite, told him of Anya and her thankfulness of being an upstairs girl, because they were treated better. And as she was there, she made herself useful. She cleaned and swept and occasionally cooked when she had the inclination and the ingredients.

And gradually she began to trust him. It had been a long time since she met a man she could trust. But she started to imagine that the mask—that frightening, yellow mask—set him apart from other men. Made him unlike the others that she had had. And he never touched her. Never asked her for anything.

And then, one night, she began wishing that he would…

The realization followed her home the next morning. She longed for him, longed to touch him, learn about him, hold him and have him hold her. Annette herself, having had so many of men, did not understand what it was about this blue-eyed masked man that made her ache. He was the one man in her range that she could not have, and that lit something in her that she could not explain. She wanted to ask what that ring was that he wore around his neck, how his mask came to be, where he had been the night of the burning…

She had discussed this at length with Anya, who's eyes had lit up.

"Do you…" she had hesitated. But Annette pressed her. "Do you think you may love him?"

And the brush Annette had been holding fell out of her hands.

Did she?

Love… it was scorned as an illusion in the house. And indeed it seemed to be. The girls would gather to giggle at the foolishness of sonnets and if any girl received flowers from a moonstruck lover, they all had a good laugh. There was no love—only physical lust and power. The mind could play tricks—to be sure, but these girls were certainly to be spared.

Love.

It sounded strange upon the tongue. She thought of Erik, of his rare smiles and strong hands and something stirred within her…

--

The deChagny household was dark, but there were candles lit in the gallery. Raoul DeChagny stood before a great portrait of a severe man with white hair and moustache, frowning out at the world, Charles DeChangny, his late father. Raoul stood and stared at the painting, but his thoughts were not in the gallery of his mansion. He was twelve years old, holding a large dark brown stallion in one hand, other hand on his hip. Beside him, a peasant argued his case.

"It was taken from my land, my lord," He said "This boy here crept up on the stable and stole it right out from under me,"

Charles DeChagny looked from the peasant to his son. The boy was looking innocent as could be. "And did you see him take this horse?"

"I did," the peasant said defiantly. "It bucked him off at first but he rode it again and galloped off toward here. I chased after him—lucky too, he would have branded that horse as his in the first possible moment."

Raoul spoke up. "Please, father, this horse was being beaten by this man," The peasant looked up, and then his determined expression changed to anger.

"Why you little runt! I've done no such thing—I ain't never seen the boy watching--"

"You will kindly not call the heir to the DeChagny line a runt, peasant." Charles said angrily. The peasant sighed and cast his eyes downward.

Charles looked to his son. "My boy, did you steal this horse?" Raoul kicked at the ground, thinking. Then, with a clear expression he looked up and smiled.

"This land is the property of my family. By rights this horse is too, for it eats from the land."

The peasant looked up. "Oh that's a dirty great--" but Charles DeChagny held up a hand.

"Indeed the boy is right," he said, looking very satisfied. "Raoul, take the horse. And for you—Jean," he indicated the peasant. "Raise your horses to be more faithful. Maybe next time he'll buck the robber off completely.

"But I--"

"Silence," DeChagny cried. "He is a DeChagny of this estate— he deserves the finest of everything."

Raoul stood, arms folded behind his back, thinking of the smashed crystal vase in the parlor, and the face of his fiancé. He could feel his blood beginning to boil. There were footsteps in the hall.

"Sir?" Came a voice. It was a small servant boy, the very one he had sent out to deliver another message to Christine. His Christine.

"And?" was all he asked. The servant boy swallowed.

"She will send no reply sir… I waited all night. They are leaving for Paris soon." The boy waited, as if expecting a reply. Receiving none, he continued. "If you please sir… I would like to go home now,"

Raoul made no answer. No reply. Again. How dare she do this to him—he could have given her the world and she spat in his face because he had made a mistake. Oh how she shamed him. He knew where she would run, and he had followed close at her heels. Now they would go to Paris. Would she take up on stage again? It would be easy to get to her there, simply take her away in the night, bring her back, make her see sense…

And then he remembered who was in Paris.

He was told there had been sightings of him, half the man he once was, crouched with a poorly made mask plastered upon his face… Raoul smirked to himself but then felt his blood run cold. If she were with him… if the world was to discover… He would be the laughing stock of French society. Imagine, Christine choosing a disfigured ghost musician over him. He had told his friends that Christine was staying with some friends in the country, just to visit before the wedding, as she would not see them for a long time.

He refused to pay for his mistake—he had done her no great wrong after all. Certainly, he had bedded another woman but was that such a crime? Other men did it when they were _married_, and their wives carried on as before. He could feel his anger rise as he thought of the impudence of this women…

"First thing in the morning tell the stables we leave for Paris in two days."

He would go to Paris. He would find her, make her see sense even if it involved dragging her back. She would see sense. He would make her love him again.

"I am a DeChagny of this estate," he muttered to himself. "And I deserve the finest of everything." Be it woman or horse. They were both to be owned and tamed.

And he stormed up the gallery and into his chambers. He would find her. He would take her back. Let the hunt begin.


	5. The night before Paris

**A/N (kindly read, thank you)  
**

**I put up Chapter 5 at super speed, and I'm actually pretty proud of it. It's one of the longer chapters. There is light smut and an answer to the E/C or E/OC question that is being asked so anxiously and suddenly.  
**

**_ANNOUNCEMENT_****: In addition to this new chapter I have written a new fic, an HP fanfiction actually. So if you like what I do here you may enjoy my take on HP. ****If you never normally Founderfics them, that's alright. People who never normally read those sorts and have read mine seem to rather enjoy it. PLEASE read it! It's a new thing for me, i've never tried fantasy before, really.**

**If you haven't read the books it doesn't matter. It has very little to do with Harry himself, seeing as it's a founderfic. It's more like LOTR or Gormenghast, completely out of my own head pretty much.)  
**

**The title is '_I, Ravenclaw_', by Lady of Proserpine (duh) so when you're done here, go read it and review PLEASE!!**

**Thanks in advance! On with the story!  
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Madam Giry sat hard on the lid of her trunk, reaching down to snap down the latch that held it together. She rose and stepped delicately over it, grazing her hands together to rid them of dust. In the other room she heard a series of thunks and thuds as the girls attempted to organize themselves again. They would leave tomorrow.

Standing in front of a cracked mirror, the final object in the room and the only thing that would remain, Madam Giry appraised her aging figure, turning sideways to smooth her careful hands over her front where her corset laced any sagging features tightly. She smiled gently.

'Vanity,' she thought and chuckled gently to herself.

With a creak and a slam, Christine entered the room, carrying a small trunk setting it by the rest of the baggage.

Madam Giry watched her. "You will be glad to leave?" It was more of a consensual statement than a question.

Christine nodded. "I have missed Paris," She admitted, not looking up. Madam Giry watched her intently as she pushed her trunk against the wall. Christine froze, feeling the woman's eyes on her and she looked up. She could read the question.

"I am not afraid," she said. But then, she was always a good liar.

Madam Giry inclined her head slightly. "The police have ceased their searching," she confided, stepping a little closer to the younger woman. "But Erik knows when to keep his silence."

Christine did not reply. She held the accusing stare until she faltered and turned to lock her trunk.

Madam Giry said nothing, but turned on her heel and swept into her small bedroom. When she had gone, Christine put a burning forehead against the cool metal of the trunk lock and took a deep breath. A small click behind her signaled another appearance in the room and she sat up quickly, guilt at succumbing to such a sway of emotions made her jaw prickle unpleasantly. She crouched out of site behind a stack of trunks as Meg brushed past.

She was wearing a bonnet, her white gloves and a blue gown, all the preparations to go out into the streets but Christine could see she was hesitant. Christine watched with the spying curiosity of a small child, drawing her knees up under her chin.

With fingers on the door handle, Meg chewed her bottom lip fervently, throwing the occasional nervous glance over her shoulder to the door of her mother's room. And then with a decisive toss of her blonde tresses she opened the door gently and shut it noiselessly behind her.

In the stillness Christine could hear her tip-toeing down the stairs. There was no sound from Madam Giry's room, and Christine could hear the pounding of her own heart.

Where was she going?

For a moment she rested in the quiet until a small noise downstairs signified the slamming of a door. Christine leapt to her feet and, in a moment of wild impulse, swung her cloak around her shoulders and followed Meg downstairs and into the late night.

--

From her high window, Madam Giry watched a second skirted figure descend like a shadow into the night. She smiled grimly.

She knew where Meg would go. She always knew. And if Marie Giry did not know her own daughter— what faith could any mother have?

But the pair themselves were not without secrets.

Madam left the window and turned to the final open trunk. It was Meg's, full of clothes and shoes and ballet garments, but in the bottom far-right corner, there was also a secret.

Carefully, Madam pulled out the box, cautious not to disturb any of the carefully folded clothes. With a key tucked cleverly into a tiny hidden compartment she opened the box and pulled out something wrapped in red velvet.

Keeling on the floor like a child, she carefully unwrapped the object that swam out into the moonlight like a ghost.

It's unblemished white glow and empty eye socket was demon-like in the darkness.

The fine mold of it was the work of a wonderful and strange craftsman so many years ago, who experimentally took a cast of the young man's face and creating the ideal feature to mask his deformity. It was constructed in such a way that it clung flawlessly to every pucker of skin and every malformed shape of bone upon that hideous visage with gentle suction which was uncomfortable at first, but lightweight functional.

His mask.

Meg had brought it to her that day, offering it to her mother's keeping. Neither had any wish to destroy it nor did they have the courage to hunt down its owner. And so their goodness (or cowardice) had kept the haunting piece of evidence in their possession for all this time.

It was Madam who came to look at it on nights like these. Meg would have little or nothing to do with the mask if she could help it. But on nights where she would lie awake and frightened in the silence and the darkness her eyes would slip to the telltale box that hid a reminder of such horror that she had no wish to know.

Madam let her smooth, fine fingers graze over the cold camouflage, her shadow casting gray across it.

If they were to go to Paris tomorrow, she had no more excuse to keep it.

The mask must be returned to its rightful owner.

--

Christine's skirts rustled and her heels clicked into the darkness. The only other footsteps were those of Meg, not too far ahead of her. There was a creak of a door, and a small bell. Christine winced. She knew where Meg was going… and waited in the wide threshold of a neighbor's house to peer around the corner.

Meg stepped inside the bakery and Christine followed, sitting just below the window so she could tilt her head upward in such a way that she could not be seen. But that was no good, for the glass was swirled and unclear, and there was no sound. And so Christine crept to the door and pressed her ear to the crack. She burned with curiosity.

It was not in her nature to spy or peer, but she could not help herself. She heard footsteps, and Jacques' voice.

"Mademoiselle Giry?" He asked. There was awe in his voice. Christine felt her cheeks color in shame. She knew she was intruding. And yet she continued to listen. She could hear Meg's breathing. She must have been close.

"I…" Meg began. She hesitated, and Christine could hear half of a heel click against the ground as Meg almost took a step forward. "I'm leaving tomorrow,"

"Yes, I know."

"I wanted… to say goodbye." Christine could hear hands slapping together. She imagined Jacques was dusting his hands free of flour from behind the counter. He cleared his throat.

"I have made you a few loaves for the journey, as you asked… and a few cakes."

"Thank you,"

There was a rustle as the meals were wrapped in paper. Christine could feel her heart pounding in hope, and in fear. There was a silence, and she strained her ears to catch any movement. But there was none. There was a swiveling sound as Meg turned on her heel and Christine could hear quick footsteps on the floorboards before her.

"Well, goodbye," Meg said awkwardly. Jacques gave a grunt in reply that sounded like 'Umn hmmn'. Christine's jaw dropped. Was this why Meg had snuck out? Just to say goodbye and leave this man in his loneliness. Christine could feel her scalp prickle in annoyance. Footsteps were coming closer to the door.

_Oh no you don't_,

And so Christine quickly pushed all her weight upon the doorknob. She could feel a tiny click as one of the contraptions within it broke and, to make certain it was completely shut, pushed her back against the door to hold her captive safely inside. Meg tried the handle with a sharp clinking sound half a second later.

"Oh," she said in a small voice. "Oh dear," Muted strides were heard across the floor as Jacques came to examine the problem.

"It seems to be broken," he announced for the benefit of his customer. There was a rustle as Meg stepped back and another small 'Oh,' Then there was another silence.

Christine stretched her spine, keeping her body weight on the door and tried to make out the shapes through the window. Meg had apparently stumbled into Jacques' arms, and he had grabbed her by the waist to keep her steady.

Meg stared up at Jacques, both looking in form of shock.

"I'm sorry," Jacques muttered untruthfully. And his hands did not move. Meg looked up at him breathlessly.

"No… it was my fault." And silence rested again. They were frozen in time, both watching the other's eyes. Somewhere down the street in the distance there were footsteps. Christine's spying would be discovered soon.

But with one eye on the street and the other in the window, Christine watched with bated breath.

And her patience was rewarded.

Slowly, and with gently as though he were afraid he would break her, Jacques lowered his face to Meg's. For a second, she hesitated and then cautiously she brought her hand up behind his neck and tilted her face upward. Her lips parted slightly as they met with his.

And they shared their first kiss, with Christine as their witness through the distorted glass window.

Her fingers moved slowly, caressing the soft hairs on the back of his neck and he smiled into her mouth.

"Marry me," he whispered. Christine gasped in her hiding place.

Immediately Meg pulled back and stared at him. It looked for a moment as though she were about to say something but he pulled her in and kissed her instead.

When their kiss was over Meg drew back breathlessly. "Are you asking me to--"

"Only when you're ready… and only… If you would have me…"

The silence was palpable.

The footsteps were coming nearer. At such a time of night the senses were sharpened and Christine could hear the rustle of trouser legs.

"Will you marry me?" Jacques' voice came again. His voice was hushed and hopeful. "I'm sorry if I'm going the wrong way about this… I've never asked anyone before." Meg opened her mouth to say something but he shook his head. "Before you answer let me speak." He took a deep breath, and the words gushed out of him. "I know I'm no great nobleman, I'm just a baker and I can't offer you fine gowns or gold carriages. And I know you've gone through years of training to be a ballerina so you can dance upon the stage and become famous and have your portrait painted and hung on great marble walls, and I'll understand if you'll keep chasing that need until you catch it. And I do not have much to give you beyond a sturdy house and fresh bread every morning… But I love you. And if you will take me to be yours forever I will love you until they take my soul to heaven."

There was a small, breathy gasping sound and it seemed as though Meg was starting to cry.

"If you are not ready now--" He said quickly.

There was the sound of a kiss.

"Jacques," Meg said breathlessly, repeating it to herself. "Jacques, Jacques, Jacques…" And then there was another tearful noise. "I love you too well for this,"

"Well marry me then!" He pleaded.

There was the sound of footsteps as Meg crossed the room. "If only it were that simple…"

Jacques followed her. "You love me and I love you and we have wish to be together! What could be simpler?" Meg turned to him but did not let him taker her in his arms.

"It is not for myself but for my mother that I speak…" She said quietly. "And I cannot abandon my kin and dearest friend who will go to Paris tomorrow. My mother pursues her reputation and her own ambitions and I have been a part of them for a long time. And Chrisine--" Meg sighed. "Oh I could not hurt Christine like that… she has been through too much and I will not leave her now. And you--" She touched his face with her hand and he turned and kissed her palm. "You are too good to marry me. My life has been nothing but training for a future that burned to the ground with an Opera House. And now I have the chance to grasp it again. Have I any choice?"

Jacques stepped back from her.

"You told me I would not understand, and I will not pretend that I do… but Meg… Meg please do not leave me here without an answer."

And there was a brief silence. Perhaps in hesitation, perhaps in thought. Christine was glued to the conversation. Her heart was sinking.

"If we were to go to the church tomorrow morning and be wed and I was to stay here, I would regret it forever," She said quietly.

Jacques took a step backwards. "Is that all?"

She shook her head. "No, please hear me out. If I were to stay I would not know what would have happened if I had gone to Paris. Not for myself, for I know my fate would be to dance forever upon the stage and eventually teach it like my mother did. But I must go for the sake of Christine. She has seen too much to return to Paris without fear. And if I leave her now she will never forgive me. And I would never forgive myself. She is bound for great things, Jacques, but she will never find her way to them without a friend by her side."

Jacques nodded slowly. But Meg had more to say.

"But I will swear to you now that when that time is over and Christine is happy and things are as they should be—I will return. And I will marry you then."

Christine felt as though she were going to faint.

Meg, the friend she had always had and perhaps taken for granted, was going to give up her happiness to see her safe. Meg would stay to see her friend rise, perhaps even beyond the dreams of Meg herself.

And only when Christine was settled would Meg attend to her own happiness.

"Please understand," Meg begged. "If you love me as you say you do please understand. And please have faith. I will come back and we will make our life together."

Jacques paused. "You will write. You will not throw my letters into the fire and avoid contact with me," Meg caught his hand and held it to her cheek tenderly.

"Jacques," she said again. "Please," He rubbed her cheekbone gently with his thumb. "No matter what you believe, whatever they tell you, I love you. I have loved you and I will love you. And for now, let that be enough."

And she kissed him again.

--

Christine, in a daze, stumbled from the threshold just as the wandering villager rounded the corner. He tipped his hat to her and she nodded, gulping for air.

And she returned to the apartment at the run. Meg's words echoing at every step and a memory fighting for recognition at the back of her mind. There was a taste, a kiss, a shocked face with tearful eyes stumbling wildly away from her. There were the desperate cries of a man following her down the streets and through the alleys, always a step behind no matter how fast she went to try to outrun it.

She ran up the stairs and went to her room with every appearance of calm. Madam had apparently gone to bed herself.

And Christine sat on the bed, put her face in her hands and wept.

When Meg returned, her friend was fully dressed and sound asleep upon the mattress.

--

Annette watched Erik moan and tremble in his sleep. Her heart ached to see such pain but it was pounding in her chest, Anya's words echoing in her ears.

"D'you love him, then?"

'…Love him then?'

'….Love him…'

Perhaps it was the common way of mankind—to yearn for love, for someone to leash their affections upon and adore for all eternity. And Annette's case was feasibly different. It was not becoming of a whore to fall in love. And it was not proper to fall in love with a whore.

Was she even capable of such a thing?

She stood and took two long steps over toward him. She for a long moment, she simply stood behind him, watching him. And slowly she slipped a hand under his chin, leaning his head to rest gently against her breast. Still, Erik did not awaken. And she bent down as if she had all the time in the world; as if at any sudden movement he would vanish. Gently, she tilted his head upwards and slanted her lips over his. She could feel he was startled but then she felt him respond, his eyes still closed. His mouth was warm though his lips were somehow rough. Her pulse raced even faster.

One of her hands snaked down to his shirt and her fingers brushed the chain on his collarbone and to the fine, downy hairs of his chest.

"Christine?" He whispered reverently. He reached out a hand and a long forefinger brushed Annette's neck.

A stranger's name in her ears did not stop her. She knew what he thought but she did not care. "Yessss," Annette purred into his mouth, tasting him, licking him, wanting him. She pushed herself a little closer. "Yes,"

And Erik's eyes flicked open.

The speed at which he stood up knocked her over and she stumbled backwards.

"You," He hissed. She stood, legs hip width apart, staring at him as levelly as she could, cheeks flushed. She sucked her bottom lip through beneath her top one, still tasting him. Her hands balled into fists.

"Me," She agreed.

Erik went to his writing desk and slammed his great hands upon it. Locking his elbows, he leaned forward, bowing his head. His back was to her. "How dare you," was all he said. Annette said nothing. Her blood raced and her palms were sweating.

He whipped around to face her, wiping his mouth rudely and completely with one hand.

"I said _how dare you_!" He roared suddenly, rushing towards her. She gave an involuntary jerk at the volume, taking a step backwards. He was frightening.

"I…"

His face was red and his eyes were wild and dangerous. Annette glanced behind her, trying to find a way to make a quick exit.

But the only door was behind Erik.

"_Why?_?" He shouted at her.

"Don't you..."

His breathing was a violent, sharp hiss.

"You little _viper_," Erik said through clenched teeth. "How dare you put your whore's tricks on me?"

Now she could feel a little part of her flare and then shatter. She could feel the corners of her eyes pricking. "It is not--"

He raised a hand before she could finish, as if to strike her and she cringed, ready for the tumbling pain.

They held that position for a long moment, like actors in a tableau. Several times he rocked forward as if to give himself strength for the blow. She simply froze face contorted and arms thrown over her face.

And then he let his hand fall limply to his side.

Very slowly, Annette turned to look up at him. Erik's head was bowed. She could see from the trembling of his chest that he had given way to emotion. He leaned his face into his palms.

"Have you no pity?" He said very quietly. She sighed heavily and reached out to touch him… But he shrugged her hand off his shoulder.

"Do you not know?" She murmured.

Erik drew his face from his hands to look at her. The red lining in his whites made his eyes look unnaturally blue. Annette's heart gave a painful wrench that made her breath come short.

The look he gave her was a haunted, empty look full of a distant yearning and puzzled resolve. And understanding flooded her senses like a chill.

He didn't want her, didn't care for her… This man loved another, and there would never be room for her. Her chest seemed to suddenly collapse in on itself.

"I'm sorry," She said thickly. "I'll go,"

She stepped past him without meeting his eyes and slipped into the shadows that kept him from seeing the tears that had begun to push themselves from her eyes. Her feet made no sound until she walked out from the underground and into the dim light of the morning.

And no one stopped the weeping girl to ask what the matter was, nor put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

And no one was there to hear a Phantom sigh.

**(Liked it? Read and review, and go check out 'I Ravenclaw'!)**


	6. The Return

**A/N**

**Been a while, hasn't it?**

**Forgive the delay, I have been insanely busy and this chapter was written in spurts whenever I got a moment and i FINALLY finished it! Thank you to everyone who reviewed and encouraged me to carry on! This is all a setup for the big Chapter 7, 8 and 9 which will be the most important. (Hey, it took me long enough!)  
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**Enjoy.**

**Chapter 6 **

Christine was awoke early in the morning to a gentle shaking of her shoulder as Meg, puffy eyed and tousle-haired, woke her. She held back the urge to throw her arms around her friend. Secrecy was necessary. She had no wish to embarrass Meg or humiliate herself by bringing up the fact she had been watching through the door. Meg's love was her business—Christine had been an intruder.

Even before the carriage they could hear by the rumble outdoors that a storm was coming.

Madam swept through the cramped rooms with a continual swish of her skirts, inspecting the locks on the trunks, looking under beds and between mattresses, feeling into the darkest corners of wardrobes and inspecting the dusty cabinets for any spare trinket that may be left behind.

"Meg I have found our other pearl earring," Madam said, holding out the little white sphere, eyebrows raised. "You swore to me you had packed everything,"

Meg flushed. "Well almost everything," She stashed the little jewel into her pocket. "Anything else?"

"_Non_. You have done well, my dears." Christine slipped to the windowsill, grabbing the stub of a candle off of the wooden pane and putting it in her pocket.

The women exchanged glances silently, and then turned to look around the empty apartment. There was a clattering on the cobblestones to announce the arrival of their carriages. The horse whinnied restlessly and they could hear the driver cough.

Madam Giry sighed, looking about her. She pressed one hand to the belly of her corset and pushed the other into the small of her back.

"Very well," She said quietly. And there was a musty, thick silence.

There was a knock at the door.

Madam Giry threw a glance back at the other two women and opened the door. The driver stood before them, wearing a knobbly overcoat, an old, worn hat and thick workboots. He coughed into his hand. Madam Giry stiffened, stepping back slightly from the terribly bad manners.

"Are you ready?" the driver asked, coughing again, this time into the air and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. Madam Giry's disguised her look of distaste by sending it toward Meg and Christine.

"Are we?" She asked. The girls nodded. Madam indicated the five trunks pushed against the wall. "Christine, Meg, take yours. I will take mine and our drive can carry the rest,"

Christine and Meg exchanged glances. Those trunks were heavy and large…

But they raised no objections, relieved just to be leaving.

And so pushing, grunting, shoving, lifting, tugging and heaving through about fifteen minutes they finally got their trunks to fit into the carriage. Madam descended with her own, making it look neat and effortless despite the redness of her face. And the driver arrived with the two smallest thrown over his meaty shoulders. He tossed them into the carriage and hopped into the driver's seat.

Madam Giry stared daggers at his hunched back and sniffed her disapproval. However, she opened the door herself, her daughter settling in beside her and Christine opposite the two of them.

With an almighty creak and a rumble the carriage started forward. There was silence in the carriage as they all watched the remnants of their stay here grow smaller behind them.

"Will you miss it?" Christine asked abruptly.

Madam frowned and shook her head. "No. This place was a holding tank, and nothing more to us." And Meg was silent.

Whether it was the silence in the carriage or the steady clink of the cobblestones or lack of sleep—one by one, they all drifted off.

* * *

Erik readjusted his mask by pushing it hard down against his face. The sealing liquid was hot and tight against his skin, but that hardly mattered. It wouldn't do to have it slip. He gave his head a short, violent shake against the pain and let out a strained breath through his teeth. 

Talley and Rand awaited him. There had been a message for him at his rooms in the Moon-On-Water Inn, where he stayed when the cold and damp conditions of his home (made worse by the fire) became intolerable. It was a quiet place, small and dirty, a house of ill repute run by a bald, cruel oaf of a man and his shrill and busty wife.

He was not disturbed there, and when he stayed he did not sleep, nor could he, due to the noisy and consistent inhabitants of the establishment.

He sat upon a bed and touched the greasy linen with uncertainty, his thumb dark against the white. He glanced up to a spotted mirror and glared at his reflection, his face in shadow and the mask in violent relief in its yellowish hue.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Erik leapt to his feet, and flung it open, furious at the disturbance. But in the doorway was an unexpected guest.

A man stood in the shadowy hall, arms folded over his chest. The man was tall and broad with muscle and his oiled skin was as dark as ochre and the black, tight curls upon his head were streaked with gray, although there was no other indication of his age. Erik stepped into the hall, facing the man and staring at him. His clothes were those of a sailor, and his gray linen shirt was relatively clean with a tear near his left bicep.

Erik faced him. Although he himself was tall, this dark man towered over him with shocking comparison. The two men watched each other intently. They did not break gaze even as the door to the tavern yanked open and slammed shut and the noise invaded the cavern.

It was Erik who broke the silence.

"What brings you here,"

The larger man shrugged, arms still folded. "The wind and ocean and a large boat," His voice was deep and resonated in thick echoes throughout the hall.

Erik's expression did not change. "No, what brought you _here_. How did you find me?"

The African man said nothing, but held out a small, rumpled off-white envelop with a broken seal. Even without reading it, Erik knew the writer. He did not bother to read the better, and thrust it back to his companion who simply stared at it.

"Paris has changed," He said. Erik, withdrew the letter and placed it in his own pocket nodded distractedly.

"All these ideas for 'rennovations' and 'modernization'," Erik agreed, dusting his hands together unnecessarily. "It's all damn silly if you ask me,"

The other man cocked his head at Erik, who seemed to want to look everywhere but at him. "You're not well,"

"I'm fine," Erik retorted quickly, still rubbing his hands together.

"Marie was right," the man snorted. "Where I stay is much better, you will live with me there."

Erik protested. "I have a meeting with two gentlemen at the moment. I don't have time to be nursed back to health. So if you please" But the man blocked his exit, flinging the great pack from off his back and onto the ground. He then pulled out an apple and a half-plucked chicken.

"You will eat first,"

Erik stared first at the apple and then at the chicken and then into the pack where several ears of corn peeked out along with a few potatoes.

It had been a long time since Erik had eaten properly…

And Erik's face suddenly broke out into a very strange, sincere smile.

"It is good to see you, Akil."

And it was as though someone had lit a candle in the African man's face. His wide, full mouth drew back to display large, shining teeth in contrast to the darkness of his face, some were white and some were gold, plated in times of wealth upon the seas. And without warning he threw his arms around the dwarfed Erik with such astounding force that the smaller man was lifted off the floor.

"My friend," Akil bellowed, jouncing Erik, "My friend…"

* * *

Christine was dreaming again. 

It was not a nightmare, but a dream you have of a memory half-forgotten and half laced together until you can't remember if it really happened or if it was—indeed—all just your imagination by the end.

* * *

Their house by the sea was not large. It stood upon the quaking sand uncertainly, its higher floors with its wide, jutting balconies seemed to be reaching out toward the waves while the first floor with its enclosed doorway and tight construction gave the impression that it wanted nothing more than to be free of the tang of salt and the spray of water. 

At the very top of this house, there was a very small, circular window which was almost always dark, with tangled cobwebs interfering with its glass.

However, on this particularly rainy, particularly dark evening, the glass had a cheery orange glow and the creaky activity of two children interrupted its solemn silence.

A girl dressed in a white lawn summer dress with a light pink sash sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, wide-eyed as a boy still in dark blue knee stockings and a coat with shiny brass buttons that was four sizes too large for him read to her from a large, tattered book.

"_And no one knew,_" He said with a flair, peering at her mysteriously. "_The secret of that summer night. And they say that the ghost of the beautiful maiden still tears about the forest, her screams frightening even the hardiest hunter to his very soul as she flees her fate over and over… The End._"

There was a silence. The boy snapped the book shut ceremoniously. Christine brought her fingers from her mouth.

"Do you think that _really_ happened, Raoul?" She gasped, pulling herself onto her knees. The boy, the older and obviously wiser of the two, shrugged.

"Who knows… we'll just have to go to that forest one day and listen for her." Christine's eyes grew even wider.

"Wouldn't that be frightening?"

"Don't be frightened, Little Lotte," Raoul said bravely, putting two little hands on her shoulders. "I'll protect you."

Suddenly, the thunder above them gave such a loud clap that both of them gave a cry of fright.

Christine made a grab at Raoul's coat, and he put a small arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "They won't find us in here," He said.

"I have to go away soon, Raoul," Christine said suddenly. Her friend withdrew his arm quickly.

"What!"

"Papa is going to send me away to a school!" Raoul's brow furrowed, not fully comprehending. Then his expression cleared and he sat back down next to Christine.

"I'll talk to Father," he said. "I'm sure he could work something out,"

Christine frowned.

"But father wants me to go… and I'm sure I will like it there, if Papa thinks it will be good for me,"

"You should stay here, with me!" Raoul said defiantly. Christine sighed.

"I want to go!"

Raoul turned to her. "But if you go, how will we be married?"

Christine bit her lip. "I…" She looked at Raoul, who appeared to be thinking fast. Suddenly he reached into the hem of her skirt and brought out a pin, small, silver and sharp. "Hold out your thumb," Raoul ordered.

"What?"

"Hold out your thumb."

Christine obeyed. "What are you doing?" And with two sharp jabs and a yelp of pain from Christine, a tiny bead of blood appeared on both of their thumbs. And Raoul took Christine's hand and held her thumb to his.

"I'm making you mine!" He said cheerfully, watching the blood flow between them.

Christine shifted uncomfortably, thrown slightly off balance by their strange position.

"Alright,"

"Now wherever you go, I'll go too, and you'll go with me too, because now we have each others blood and we can never be separated!"

Christine watched her thumb nervously as it seemed to grow scarlet with an overflow of blood. Somewhere below them a violin had begun to strain itself through a scale

* * *

And with another clap of thunder Christine awoke. 

She put a hand to her clammy forhead, the thumb of her right hand still tingling with the memory of pain brought to her by the dream. Her belly turned. The rain poured down outside and the carriage shifted noticeably as the cab driver leaped down from his post, pulling up his jacket against the cold and throwing open the door.

"We have reached our destination, ladies," and he said nothing more, leaving the door open and slipping into the nearest tavern for something to warm him up. Madam Giry sat stiff-backed, regarding the unpleasant weather with distaste.

"My," She said icily. "I hope he does not expect to be paid." And with one elegant flounce of her skirts she was out of the carriage and knocking on the door to a new building, no doubt their new home.

Meg, who was still sleeping like the dead, was awoken by a tug on the shoulder by Christine.

"Come along, dearest," Christine whispered as Meg blinked blearily, "We're home,"

* * *

The cottage stood out warm and dry against the rain, and the babe had finally ceased its wailing. Raoul was relieved. 

"Well my dear, I must leave for Paris in a day or two, I suppose we will say our goodbyes here."

The mother of his child (whose name was Katherine) got to her feet unsteadily.

"How long will you be gone?" She asked wearily. This was the first time Raoul had visited her in the weeks since the grand argument in the hall. Kat had never forgotten that woman's expression… and it filled her with shame and sorrow.

"I don't know," Raoul said casually, fitting on his large overcoat. "Perhaps a week, perhaps a month. Either way I daresay you're well provided for, aren't you?"

Kat helped him with his coat and stood staring at him, uncertain what she wanted. Raoul looked at her impatiently.

"Yes?"

Kat shook her head swiftly and violently. "Nothing," She murmured, feeling foolish.

"Take care of the boy,"

"I will,"

Raoul half-smiled and gave Kat a cool kiss on the forehead. "Alright then, goodbye,"

And he strode out the door without another word, with Kat in the threshold, rubbing the back of her neck and uncertain of what to say. She had neither wit nor talent of conversation to hold him for very long. She went and looked at the tiny bald cherub that was her boy. She reached out a finger and stroked his smooth, soft forehead.

"You'll know your Papa," she said comfortingly. "You won't be a bastard like those children in the village. You'll be educated and do great things." She kissed his round cheek. "I just hope you'll remember your old mother in the end."

* * *

Raoul hurried from the cottage. Damn that woman. 

He had endured a full hour and a half of sitting in a conversation about the weather and cows full of awkward pauses and uncomfortable silences. When he returned from Paris he would put that woman and that child far out of his way.

His manservant stood waiting for him at the threshold of the house. "You are packed, sir."

"Right, yes, thank you Jowler," Raoul muttered distractedly, eyeing the large portrait of his father in the hall as if he could feel those great oil eyes watching himjudging him.

"If you please sir—how long shall we be gone for?"

Raoul shrugged. "As long as it takes to take back what's mine," Jowler's expression did not change, although his heart sank.

"Very good, sir."

* * *

The new apartment was larger than the last. It was an improvement by many accounts, although there was not much of a view but that of the street below. It would suffice, Madam Giry thought. 

But at the moment there was nothing but darkness. The girls were asleep, exhausted by the day's travel but Madam was awake and alert, scanning a note in her hand.

The scrawl would have been unfamiliar to either Meg or Christine. It was written by a hand whose familiarity had long since vanished with the tide that took him to sea.

_Marie—_

_I found him, he is hungry and sick at heart, but alive. The meeting will go as you said, Monsieurs Talley and Rand will be meeting with him soon. Welcome home, to the two of us, I suppose. I will see you soon._

_Akil_

Madam placed the note back into its envelope and threw it into the fire, placing her chin in her hand.

She looked out the window into the dim light. Tomorrow she would have to meet with these two new prospects, Talley and Rand. Tomorrow she would be a part of her work again, doing what she loved. And tomorrow…

She glanced over to the box that held the mask, the box that held all of the past that had been locked away and hushed.

Madam looked out into the dark night as a man in a coat with the collar turned up crossed the lamp-lit streets, quick as a cat.

Tomorrow...


	7. The Hunt Begins

**A/N**

**A bit of a wait on this one, I know, I apologize. Thanks to all those who reviewed, I love getting that email in my inbox, and kudos to those with long reviews full of complements, questions and criticisms.**

** I've gotten a lot of reviews begging me to make this an E/C phic. All I have to say is that if you haven't picked up on it yet, then I hope you will in this chapter. Or the next, or the next. Naturally I am not at liberty to say. ;)**

**But I digress. **

**So, here we are. **

Chapter 7

Annette Taillé sat at her tiny writing desk, a fat candle lit against the perpetual darkness of the upper levels. Madam Boyé always insisted that the girls in the higher rooms keep their windows latched shut against the prying eyes of men. The room itself was airless, but clean with a large four-poster bed standing heavily in a darker corner. The sheets were white and bleached carefully, and above the mattress there was a large, glistening mirror.

It was nearing noon, and still Annette had not slept.

But the lack of it usually gave her energy and drive as her charcoal scraped across the page, filling it with rough sketches and designs, writing little notes to herself in the margins biting the nail of her right forefinger as she scribbled.

At first glance it looked like something an architect might draw, a large and almost perfect square of a surface with squiggles representing measurements all along the edges. But when one looked closer you could see a structural design for a huge fortress of a backdrop complete with recipes for artificial, sweeping stone walls and grand silk gardens that could easily be hidden from view, with notes on designing a structure strong enough to walk a horse across and yet able to drop open on command. The pages that followed contained notes on creating a rotating stage, and further still there were costume designs and luxurious flowing ball gowns being designed, an a gentleman's evening wear that hailed from another century altogether.

And through the scrawl at the top, if you knew what you were looking at, the script read 'The Rise and Fall of deMontigue'.

Her designs.

She had always drawn as a child, and when her father opened up his own bakery in their little town, the architectural designs fascinated her. During her days after her arrival in Madam Boye's house, she had often attended performances open to the common public. Tickets were cheap and the shows were, more often than not, poorly managed and amusingly preformed. But something about these poor shows touched Annette deeply, and became her escape.

After most shows, Annette would stay behind until it was completely devoid of people, staring in wonder at the huge stage that had been so filled with people just the moment before, a transport into another world. She had spent many hours walking the stage and examining the props and furniture, admiring the contraptions used for everything from pulling the curtain open to making smoke flow from a dragon's mouth.

The man who came to clean the stage afterwards, Monsieur Rive took a liking to the curious young woman with her wide eyes. He did not know what she was, and she was more than happy not to tell him. He explained how everything worked, teaching her how to mark the sets and how they stored the costumes and made them, introduced her to a number of stagehands (some of whom Annette had already met of an evening) who were more than happy to oblige her with answers to her questions.

And then one afternoon during a matinee of a musical version of "A Midsummer Night's Dream", the fairy queen's trapeze-like sleeping nest collapsed, throwing the actress and several of her companions to the ground. Although the woman was not seriously injured, many of the audience members were thrown by the accident. Annette had rushed afterwards to her beloved stage, examining the cracked surface and staring up at the torn canopy.

She stayed up all night, pleading monthly illness and hesitantly rejecting customers. Her room was alive with her footsteps and scratch of her pencil as she redesigned the posts and the sturdiness of the structure with meticulous measurements and trials on a smaller scale, as she had seen it done.

The next day she shyly handed her drawings to Monsieur Rive, who took them with a humoring smile.

But rather than cause another disaster, and on the urge on a few of the stagehands and actors who knew Annette, he examined it carefully.

And so Annette began, in a way, redesigning the entire theatre.

It had been a slow process, taking up the space of about a year and a half, and not all suggested improvements actually worked. Annette had to scratch all her sketches out in secret, burning the rough drafts (which proved to be a mistake) and keeping the finals hidden in her desk under lock and key, or beneath her mattress.

Every night she would have her customers. This was solved with a strong sleeping drug slipped into a cup of hot tea. Annette had, at first, not wanted this method to be a part of her scheme, but at Anya's urging she tried. It worked like a charm, and so her customers had her shortly and then fell deeply asleep, sometimes for the whole night, leaving Annette free; if she was slightly poorer for it. And as they slept, she would sketch, scheme and design. And in the day, she slept shortly and sweetly.

In the meantime, Annette learned new skills. She learned the skill of costume design, techniques for easier scene transitions and how to extinguish the footlights in one fell swoop.

When she met Erik, his discovery of her talent had been a mistake. One nght she was so exhausted from her efforts of the afternoon, she slept deeply. And Erik had entered her room softly at Madam Boye's urging. Uncomfortable for his intrusion, Erik began examining the simple room.

His discovery in the locked desk drawer had woken Annette quickly, though her initial fury was led to awe as he critiqued her designs. They did not leave Annette's room that night, and Madam Boye opened the door very quietly just before dawn to find them sharing the bed in the dark corner. Satsified, she had left but had she moved closer she would have seen that both were fully dressed and their fingers were stained with ink and charcoal.

And gradually, he began to incorporate her designs into his own. And she became his assistant, of sorts.

She loved working for him, working with him. She adored the approval in his eyes and worshipped the grandeur of his face set hard against irritation in the candlelight.

But the mask…

However, she now stared blankly into her drawings, all lack of inspiration as cold and black as the grief that thickened her brain.

Lost. She had lost.

There was a knock at the door and Annette quickly stuffed the pages under the lid of her desk and pulled out a book of German grammar, adopting the position of one deeply engrossed.

The candle lit one side of her face quite well. She a slight cleft in her chin that was a little too noticeable but her dark blue eyes were striking. Her stature was not unusually short, but she was small and her shoulders and chest were broad, like her brother Jacques'. There were dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep but her cheeks were flushed.

"Come in," She said. Her voice was not sweet or feminine. It was low and with a grating hoarseness earned at sharp point of a robber's blade pressed a little too close to her windpipe in a dark alley one night.

Madam Boyé pushed her severe face around the door.

"What are you doing?" Annette lifted up the book she had feigned such interest in and showed title. It had been given to her by a strange man from America who had visited her every now and then and had a nose like a parrot's.

Madam's thin lips pursed. "And last night?" Annette scooped a chinking purse of moneys from the top right hand corner of her desk and palmed three of the coins. The rest she tossed to Madam, who caught it with a talon-d hand. She glanced at Annette who innocently returned to her reading. "He comes for you often,"

"Yes," Annette agreed, uninterested. She turned a page.

"And did he have you last night?"

Annette shrugged, not looking up. "Yes, several times," she lied easily, running her finger across a particularly interesting line.

Boyé seemed satisfied. "Very well." But she did not leave. Annette looked up from her book.

"Forgive me, Madam. Did you wish to know more?"

Madam Boyé's mouth opened and then shut. She took a breath. "Does he wish to take you for his mistress?" The younger woman barely blinked.

"He has said nothing,"

"He has been coming for you for months, more and more often," She said, her voice almost accusing. "He is taking good business." Annette's hand lolled to the table and her small fingers tapped impatiently.

"I make good money and his demands are simple,"

"You had three callers last night! I had to turn them away!"

The girl sat up straighter in her chair. "So be it. Our strange Monsieur seems to like me. He pays each time. There does not seem to be a problem."

Madam Boyé regarded her haughtily. "You have not yet learned his name?"

Annette looked down at the book again, signaling the end of conversastion. "No,"

Boyé grunted. "If he does not wish to take you I shall have to limit his business. Monsieur Rand came for you lat night. He waited for you but you did not return until dawn."

"Mm…" was the reply.

"Well ask this man of yours if he wishes to see more of you," Boyé said impatiently. "Prod around, find a way through him, you're good at that." Annette nodded absently and rubbed her forehead with her thumb. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared into the pages. Madam Boyé lingered for a few moments as if wanting to say more, but she quickly turned on her heel and left the room.

As soon as her footsteps had died, Annette snapped the book shut and dug out her sketches again, wrestling her utensil from its recess. But she did not write.

She had lied again. And this time for the worst. Placing her elbows on the hard wooden surface, Annette slid her face into her hands. The hot tears were coming again.

"I was such a fool," she muttered, her own voice muffled to her ears. "Such a fool," She raked a hand, fingernails and all, down her face and covering it in white welts that turned crimson. The tears were coming again.

Oh before God, the tears. They never seemed to end, always coming up from the bottom less well close to her cheekbones. She had heard stories of girls crying themselves dry. Now why, why not her?

"God, damn God." She swore, and stared achingly into the darkness.

And she waited for night to fall.

* * *

Erik examined his reflection in the yellowed mirror. Akil stood behind him, almost melting into the inky shadows. 

Erik looked up.

"Would you accompany me?"

Akil's eyebrows rose. "For what purpose?"

The water spashed noisily against his face in the washbasin, letting the water flow over his mask. "Intimidation," he said bluntly.

His reply was a calm shrug. "Very well."

Grabbing a rumpled towel from its rack, Erik dried his face and very little was said for some time. Akil looked out the small dim window.

"Marie is here," He remarked.

For a moment, Erik froze.

He then continued to dry his face and threw the towel over on the small dingy bed. "And?"

"She wants to see you,"

Erik gave a derisive snort. "See me?"

"Talk to you, visit with you. It has been very long, my friend."

Walking back over to the washbasin, Erik propped his arms on either side of the washbowl and sighed into his reflection.

"Is she accompanied?"

"By her daughter…"

"And no one else?"

Akil's eyes betrayed hesitation as he kept his silence, and Erik let a hiss of a breath out through clenched teeth that sent ripples flicking through the water.

Akil still said nothing.

"I see," Erik said, very slowly. "I see."

* * *

Raoul de Chagny buttoned his coat and stepped into his carriage which smelled faintly of orchids, whispers, and expensive perfume. 

"Look alive," he called briskly to his footman, tapping the roof of the carriage with his walking stick. His manservant, Jowler, sat across from him, staring out the window into the rolling green hills of the estate, and watched the blades of grass blur into a melting stream as the carriage picked up speed.

"Paris again,' Raoul said, with expectation in his voice. "This may not be a particularly long stay,"

"I do hope not, sir," Jowler said hesitantly, thinking of his sweet wife and their two children at their cottage but a quarter of a mile away. "And where shall we find Miss Daae?"

Raoul sighed heavily. "She has been very ill lately, Jowler. The health spa I sent her to did not help, so she has returned to Paris to stay with a friend of hers, the Girys. They are both dangerously independent women—I'd hate for them to have a… negative influence on her. It has gotten to the point where she has not been answering my letters… and so I am going to visit her and make sure all is well."

"Ah,"

"And I plan to see Inspector Carsonne upon our arrial… he's an old friend of mine from my school days,"

This chain of lies seemed so opaque and perfect to Raoul, that he dared continue on the same tangent for several minutes, elaborating on strange incidents of their imaginary well-spent youth until Jowler found his mind wandering again.

As Raoul lavished attention on his own falsehoods, he thought of Carsonne himself. Raoul had actually met him during the Opera House catastrophe some months before and found him to be a rather wild-eyed, lean younger man who spent his nights at dogfights in the back alleys, and had a particular interest in the Opera Ghost case. They called him 'the bloodhound', because he could trace any body from anywhere in Paris.

Raoul smiled to himself.

He knew Carsonne would find his Christine.

And then, he would hand her over.

* * *

"Have you finished, my girls?" Madam Giry called from their small kitchen. Meg and Christine had unpacked the last trunk, and the apartment was beginning to look a bit more like home. Meg had on one of her point shoes and was performing arabesques before the long mirror. Her leg, sadly, did not have the lift it once did, but no matter. Christine was merely staring out the window. 

"I'm going to have to ask _maman_ to help me stretch," Meg said sadly. Her mothers exercises for regaining flexibility were effective, but extremely painful. "Look," Her leg lifted to an 80 degree angle and would go no further. Christine glanced over her shoulder to look at Meg, smiling weakly

"You'll be fine," She said encouragingly. "Your turnout is still so much better than mine!"

Meg sighed. "Come away from the window, Christine. There can't be much to look at, just passing carriages, dirty walls and a cloudy sky.

"I like it!" Christine objected, throwing open the window and breathing in the air, sharp with autumn. She hummed a few lines of a half remembered song, her voice sounding clearer in her ears.

Meg could not help but smile. "You should sing again," She said quietly. Almost instantly Christine's good mood dropped.

"Oh no," she said quietly. "No, I couldn't… I am…. I am out of practice,"

"Christine," Meg said firmly.

"It wouldn't be right," Christine whispered pleadingly, glancing out the window again.

Meg bit her lip. "And why not?" she dared to pry.

"Because he's here," Christine said breathlessly. "And he'll find me when he wants to,"

The startled expression on Meg's face would have made Christine laugh if the mood hadn't been so serious.

"Christine don't be frightened,"

"I'm not," Christine sighed under her breath. And perhaps that was the most frightening of all. Although Meg could not hear all of what Christine had said, she approached Christine anyway, taking her hand.

"Then don't frighten _me_," She insisted. There was a moment when the two women searched each other's eyes.

Madam Giry entered the room suddenly. "Girls," She said sharply, snapping them both to attention. "There are soup and biscuits on the table if you are hungry." She glanced at Meg. "I expect you to be practicing. Come to help me in the kitchen, please." She closed the door with a sharp snap.

Her daughter followed.

The older woman put her hands on both of Meg's shoulders.

"Tonight I must go out to see an old friend," Madam Giry whispered urgently, being deliberately vague. "Be certain that Christine knows nothing,"

Meg stared up into her mother's dark eyes and swallowed.

"Yes, _maman_," She said, casting her eyes downward.

* * *

Talley and Rand sat again in that dark, mysterious room, awaiting their musical benefactor. 

"Why is he never on time?" Talley asked irritably.

Rand, who had been examining the contract the contract in his hand looked up at the clock. "Well he's not late, just yet,"

There was a minute and a half until the due meeting time.

"Have you anywhere so important to be, Talley?"

"Robert, it is not a question of that,"

"Ah," Rand straightened the contract paper with a sharp snap.

Talley stood up and began to pace. "And you? Where do you have to be?"

Rand shrugged mildly. He enjoyed seeing Talley worked up, and sat back for the show.

"Oh, returning to the brothels of Paris again, I see," Talley said sarcastically. "A fine occupation,"

"Is there an alternative?"

"Have you not a wife to dine with?"

"Yes," Rand admitted.

"Then, my dear Robert…"

Madam Rand, who was called Rose, was a thin, rather flimsy woman in her early thirties, and her only contribution to her husband's life was providing him with a delicate daughter with black hair and her mother's pale blue eyes, and a thick, chubby son whose name was Michael. The daughter was called Chantal.

Robert Rand did not love his children as perhaps a husband should. The son was gruff and over-aggressive, and the daughter was mousey and silent most of the time.

Rand chuckled darkly. "You could say I find something… lacking in supper conversation."

Talley gave a rustle like an owl shaking its feathers and continued to pace.

"Besides," Rand continued, idly watching the dust filter through the rays of dying sunlight. "I have to look after my little beneficiary, don't I?"

Talley dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "That girl from Madam Boye's again?"

But Rand's reply was interrupted by the door opening quite suddenly. And in walked their composer, entering the room in a strange, silent manner, taking a seat across from the two men with merely whisper of his long cloak. His mask was concealed, and thw two gentlemen were relieved of the absence of that distraction.

He was closely followed by a large African man who stood glaring at Talley and Rand with an expression of aggression veiled with a thin mask of indifferent watchfulness.

"Gentlemen," Erik said quietly. "We meet again,"

Talley looked from Erik to the large man behind him and found himself a little short of breath. "We… we shan't keep you," He said stiffly.

"Of course not,"

Rand coughed into his thick fist. "Monsieur…" He realized that the search to put a name to the musician's face was fruitless. "Monsieur we are prepared to accept your work for our opera house. We have prepared"

With one smooth movement the musician reached into his cloak and withdrew a sheet of paper full of small, neat writing. "I have prepared a contract." He interrupted.

Staring down at the sheet in his own hand and the sheet in the composer's, Rand felt himself a little taken aback. He made a slow attempt at passing the contract into the other man's hand, but to no avail. And so he put his own onto the small table and grudgingly took up the opposing document.

He scanned it quickly.

"My demands are simple," the musician admitted. I ask only to be kept anonymous and left alone. Forty thousand francs a year."—Talley choked suddenly at the price—"Casting choices, naturally, must be put by me."

Talley straightened up and gave a pompous smile. "Ah yes, we have the perfect choice for the heroine Malvina… there is a young woman who has been rising into stardom, Genevieve Carolle, you must have heard of her. She's really very good, you see and I've already approached her"

The strange man however, held up a long-fingered hand. "I'm afraid to say that the choice for the fair Malvina has already been decided."

Talley was taken aback and Rand shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Really," Talley asked, his voice slightly strained again. "Who?"

And the man glanced up at his large dark companion whose black eyes flicked down at him with sudden warning. The stranger, however, smiled a slow, calculating smile.

"Christine Daaé,"

There was a collective breath from around the room.

"Christine Daaé?" Talley hissed. "_The _ Christine Daaé?"

The musician inclined his head. "The very same."

"But she has disappeared from public view," Rand said slowly. "She has gone to marry that Vicomte… oh what was his name…"

But the man continued to smile. "I have my reasons to believe that she is making a return trip to Paris. Permanently."

"But… but…" Talley spluttered, objection breathing through his nostrils. "She'll be mobbed!"

"She will have protection," The musician countered. He glanced upwards and his associates looked slowly up at the intimidation standing quietly behind him. Akil said nothing but Erik could sense his displeasure. Not that it mattered now.

"But" Talley continued.

But Rand put a hand on Talley's shoulder, silencing him. This information intrigued him, and peered at this cold stone of a genius with sudden interest. And he saw in his mind the lines around the theatre that this young prodigy could bring.

"You would promise us this?"

"I promise nothing. I have only expectations."

Rand sat back in his chair, making himself appear even more broad.

"Very well," Rand said quietly. "You will have your terms, musician."

And the gentle palm to palm slapping of handshake barely stirred the still, dusty air.


	8. The Unthinkable

**A/N **

**I have returned! I'm SO sorry for leaving this so long empty and lonely :(. Pardon my absence, my life took a couple of very bizarre turns over the past couple of months and writing anything worth reading has been a GREAT challenge! And you guys are too smart for me to try to pass by a junky chapter.  
**

**I beg forgiveness from my beloved readers and reviewers, you guys are the greatest ever and hope you will continue with your reviews that give me just the motivation I need!  
**

**And so here it is--**

**

* * *

**

_ Chapter 8 _

The two swift shadows navigating the darkest alleys of Paris crunched the disturbed streets with the fury of a man followed by his sin.

"You damn fool!" The larger shadow growled quietly. His fast-moving companion seemed to ignore him, moving smoothly down the crumbling walkway.

"I know what I'm doing," Erik said firmly, taking a sharp turn left into a silent courtyard, his steps crackling over the dead, dry leaves of a mysterious, nearby tree.

Akil's eyes narrowed at Erik's back. "I do not doubt your awareness."

"Then let me be,"

"I doubt your sanity, my friend."

Erik whipped around. "You will stay out of this,"

"How can I, when you have put me in it?" Akil cried, his deep voice resonating like a gong around the walls.

The other man's resolve did not waver. "She does not know of you,"

"Does that matter?"

Erik snorted, standing stiff backed and rigid, staring up at the moon. "Marie is a rather delightful liar, Akil. We have nothing to fear from her,"

The brief silence that followed was followed by the quiet sound of a blade being drawn. Erik smiled, still retaining his soldier-like position. "I know," was all he said. Akil's teeth were bared and his breathing harsh and angry.

"No, you do not."

The caped man turned slowly, his carefully polished black boots glimmering pale in the moonlight. "Christine Daaé has returned to Paris with Marie and little Meg. Why? Why would she have returned when she and her bouncing boy of a lover seemed so happily settled on his country estate? I wonder, Akil. I wonder; don't you?"

The two faced each other like duelers.

"It is none of our affair."

"Ah," Erik conceded, nodding slowly. "It would not be our affair had we hunted her down to her little factory town and disturbed her there. We would be prying into her 'affair' had we invaded her country estate and disturbed her and her lover. But now she has returned to Paris, entirely of her own accord. She has broken the silence, Akil and told the world that she is here. And she has all but opened the door and _invited_ us into her 'affair'."

Akil said nothing, only staring at his counterpart steadily.

Swift footsteps turned both heads and the straight-backed shadow of Madam Marie Giry appeared to the men.

For a moment the three stood like dancers in triangle formation. Madam looked at the two men calmly.

"What brings two such old friends into such an argument?" She asked lightly.

Had Erik been any younger, that schoolmistress tone would have made him cringe. But he merely smiled calmly.

"It is good to see you again, Marie. I trust you are glad to be back in Paris."

Madam smiled. "Yes, Meg is happy to have returned to the city."

"I hope Miss Daaé is in good health,"

Madam did not flinch, but there was a hint of alarm in her eyes. For a moment a lie almost reached her lips, but she folded her hands together in front of her full skirt. "Yes, she is."

Erik smiled that catlike smile. "Good."

Akil's eyes moved from Erik to Marie and back again. His eyes were met by Madam who was looking at Erik in well-disguised alarm.

"What do you want with her, Erik?" Madam Giry demanded, her tone sharp.

"I want her to return to the stage. I want her to sing for me again."

* * *

Inspector Carsonne, the Bloodhound of the Parisian police sat in a large leather chair behind his oak wood desk and twirled one end of his thick moustache between heavily-knuckled fingers. Opposite him was Vicomte de Chagny who tapped the arm of his chair rather impatiently. 

"Gone, you say?" Carsonne asked quietly. "Pardon my candid nature on the subject, Vicomte, but why?"

Raoul smiled easily. "A silly, girlish whim of hers I suppose. You know women and their knack for finding every fault with you…"

Carsonne smiled stiffly, his black eyes glinting. "And what did the lady discover?"

"The product of a romp in the hay with one of the serving maids," Raoul replied, fidgeting slightly, but his pleasant smile remained. "All a mistake, all taken care of but she felt the need to fall into hysterics."

"And you believe the girl in Paris?"

"I'm sure of it."

Carsonne nodded slowly, crossing his legs and running blunt fingers over his spotless desk.

"I'm sorry Vicomte but I have more pressing duties than hunting down a stray bride."

The inspector watched de Chagny's face very carefully but the calm smile did not drop as expected.

"But there is more to it than that, my friend. Not only will I pay you well… but I think she may be of… special interest to you."

Inspector Carsonne regarded the other man shrewdly. "I'm listening,"

The Vicomte leaned forward, looking first right, then left, and said quietly. "She has connections to the Opera Ghost case,"

Now he had Carsonne's full attention. The man's bushy eyebrows rose. "Oh yes?"

"Yes," Raoul replied firmly. "Very… _direct_ connections."

"How so?"

Raoul strained to remember the details of what Christine had told him. "While she was a student at the ballet academy for the Opera Populaire she was a student of his. But his teachings grew into something more…"

Carsonne's shifted in his leather chair, his small dark eyes calculating. "But the case has been dropped, we both know this. Why should I run after something that the state has deemed hopeless?"

Raoul raised one eyebrow. "Come now, Inspector." He countered persuasively, leaning forward. "Don't pretend you can't think of the glory, the fame… The Phantom of the Opera is a legend that burned down an entire opera house and killed several innocent people. The whole of Paris was pleading for his masked head on a pike for weeks after it happened, don't you remember?"

"I do,"

"And can you imagine being the man who brings this 'unsolvable' case to justice?"

Carsonne's eyes narrowed.

"You strike an interesting bargain, my dear Vicomte. What's in it for you?"

Raoul's indifferent shrug did not completely hide the light of victory in his eyes. "I once again avoid slander on the de Chagny name by reclaiming my bride."

The inspector nodded slowly, leaning back into the dark leather thoughtfully. "And this woman of yours, you can be certain…"

"… She will lead you to the Phantom of the Opera? My friend, I guarantee it."

* * *

Christine Daaé sat in the small kitchen, Meg Giry sitting across from her, poring over a stack of old playbills. 

"There we are," She said smiling. "Under 'Shepherdesses', our first ever performance… and the lambs wouldn't stay in place and kept gnawing at their bows. We must have been around twelve, do you remember?"

Christine was staring distractedly out the window, ignoring Meg's nostalgic smile.

"Yes," She muttered toying with the bitten cuticles around her fingernails. At length, Christine continued. "Meg why is your mother acting so strange?"

Meg's eyes shot up from the cast lists she was reading but she quickly lowered them again. "I don't know what you mean,"

"She has always been a mother figure to me, teaching me my first steps and dressing my in my first costume, but lately she is sharp and her mind seems…. Elsewhere."

Meg shrugged stiffly and looked back down at the playbill. "It has been a difficult time for us, with money and this move back into Paris."

"Are you certain that's all it is?"

Meg looked up to see a pair of brown eyes staring hard at her. And her mouth went dry and she dropped her gaze. Oh, how she hated lying. A flush crept into her youthful cheeks.

"As far as I know," She replied softly, her voice barely gaining volume above a whisper.

Christine suddenly felt ashamed of herself, probing her friend like this. She managed to control the quell of frustrated curiosity rising in her chest.

"I think I'll go to bed," She said in hurriedly. "I'll want to go to the cemetery tomorrow, to visit my father.

Meg looked up immediately. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," Christine replied, pushing her chair into the table. "No, I'd rather go alone, thank you,"

And she hurried out of the room so she wouldn't have to meet the hurt in Meg's eyes.

* * *

Annette Taillé's room at Madam Boye's brothel was gradually emptying. Her papers and a few stubs of spare candles as well as a clean corset and petticoats, two dresses, a cloak and bonnet were placed carefully into a carpet bag. One of the girls had been paid off to tell Madam that she had taken violently ill and so far she had not been disturbed. It was just another hour till dawn, when the house would fall into an exhausted sleep. 

And then Annette Taillé would leave Madam Boyé's forever.

She had said her goodbyes to Anya and Solomon, the brothel's german shepherd earlier in the evening. She did not know where she was going, only that she must leave soon, and flee the memories and the life that accosted her.

Annette picked up the last few writing utensils from her desk and grabbed for the bottle of red wine that stood glimmering at her in the dimly lit room. She lifted it to her mouth and took a long swig, wiping her mouth free of the dark liquid as the reassuring warmth of the alcohol tinted her bloodstream. She set the mostly-full bottle on her tiny bedside table and surveyed the room.

For the first time since her arrival Annette flung open the window and stuck her head out to breathe in the light rain that drizzled from the dark sky. She looked down onto the tired streets and up and down the narrow alleyways. From her high spot she could see the roof of the theatre she had loved so much.

"This has been my life," She said quietly to herself. "And now it can not longer be,"

She lifted her elbows from the sill and walked backwards from the window, still not closing the shutters and admiring the patterns the spots made upon the dark wood. She stood as quietly as any modern maid in a church pew.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Annette felt her heard leap in her chest as she quickly dragged the pins out of her hair and threw on a robe over the gown she had chosen to travel with. She rubbed her eyes and shuffled towards the door.

She opened it a crack.

Madam Boye stood before her, arms folded.

"Yes?" Annette wheezed, pausing to cough pathetically into her hand.

Madam's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed.

"You have a visitor," She said in a sharp voice. "And you _will_ receive him."

Annette swallowed and coughed again. "Oh Madam I am ill, please,"

"I said _you will receive him_." Madam snapped, her sharp eyes appraising the strange lumps under Annette's robe.

Annette stepped back from the door, uncertain of her position. She snuffed a candle behind her and the whole room went black. At least she could try to disguise the emptiness of her room… and the bed was still made.

"Who is it?" Annette whispered.

"Monsieur Rand, your benefactor."

Annette felt the bile rise in her throat.

She looked imploringly into Madam's hard eyes. "Please, I cannot see him," she begged desperately. "Madam, please." She reached out to put a hand on her mistress' arm, but was quickly rebuffed..

Annette let out a small moan of terror. Robert Rand's thick form filled the doorway.

"Monsieur, please, I am ill," Annette begged helplessly as Madam's footsteps died away, backing toward the wall as he approached her.

He smiled. "Don't worry child, I won't be long this time."

Annette swallowed her disgust as she stepped instinctively backwards toward the four poster bed. She could smell the whisky on his heavy breath. She pushed her arms out in front of her and held his wide shoulders at bay

"I cannot, Monsieur, please. I am ill and I will not be able to perform for you tonight…"

"Of course you can," He said gruffly, lifting up her skirts, ignoring the fact that she was fully dressed. She could hear him fidgeting with his belt. Annette shut her eyes and tried to put every thought of Erik from her mind…

But suddenly a furious energy filled her body. As Rand's large hands landed on her knee, her foot in its thick practical boot lashed out and landed a kick square in his face.

A big man, Rand was not so easily to be put down. Although Annette could not see his face, she could easily imagining his thick neck and face purpling and he reached out to grab her again.

Now she began to kick in earnest, thrashing out and hitting anywhere she could, on his shoulders and torso and chin. He let out a loud grunt as she struck him in his abdomen.

Then two large hands closed over her calves.

"You won't fight me any more after this," Rand snarled into her ear.

Annette scrambled backward, pumping her legs to free herself of his clutches. Her flailing arms nudged her bedside table, and the cool glass of the red wine…

The next few seconds, Annette could never fully remember, but the next thing she knew she heard a loud smash and the her hands were wet.

There was a terrible stillness and Annette pushed herself off the bed before Rand's hulking weight could fall lifelessly on top of her.

The girl lay there on the dull wooden floor for a moment, trying to gether her wits out of the blind terror she had felt.

Had she killed him?

Annette stared in horror a the neck of the bottle in her hand, and she chucked it out the window in a jerky motion, and heard it shatter on the street.

She wiped her stained hands on the brown fabric of her gown and stood for a moment, waiting to hear any footsteps running to her room from the din.

There were no sounds but that of her own labored breathing.

She stumbled across the room, tripping over her carpet bag that she snatched at the handle, tugging it after her.

She threw open the door of her room and tripped over her threshold, straightening her sleeves as she went, her face pale and her heart pounding.

And all she left behind were the creak of a stair and the slam of a door.


End file.
